School Spirit
by StoryEnvy
Summary: Harry Potter wasn't surprised to learn he was a wizard. He'd been dreaming of wizards and magic for years. He was just surprised at what sort of wizard he was. Prologue is identical to "Death and Dreams". Dresden Files crossover.
1. Prologue

School Spirit

Prologue

_Rather obviously, Harry Potter is the property of JK Rowlings. Death and Dream are the property of Neil Gaiman. Harry Dresden and the Dresden Files are the property of Jim Butcher. They'd probably smack me around for the damage I'm doing to their creations. _

**October 31st, 1981:**

On the outskirts of a quiet little town in England stood a stone cottage. It had been in the village for many years, and although only sporadically occupied, it was always kept in immaculate repair. It most mostly overlooked by the locals, almost as if it were too common to remark upon. No one ever wondered "Who lives there?" or "Why is it empty?" or, "Why is it that we never see anyone working there? Who tends the garden, paints the woodwork, fixes the storm damage?"

But it never occurred to the otherwise inquisitive folks of Godric's Hollow.

Less than a year ago, however, a lovely young couple had moved in, along with their infant son. And less than a day later, everyone in town promptly forgot the cottage had ever been there in the first place. It was, to the inhabitants of Godric's Hollow, like it had simply vanished.

That was lucky for them, in a sense, because it meant none of them were tempted to interfere late that Halloween. For no one, not even the closest neighbor, heard the shouting, and the screams, and the loud explosions echoing from the cottage.

But that did not mean it passed unnoticed. There were those that watched, eyes that saw everything and everyone. And some of them were focused on that small, unremarkable stone cottage in England that night, when the black robed man walked up to the House-That-Wasn't-There, opened the gate, and stepped through it.

The man never heard the flutter of soft wings behind him.

He was not alone as he walked up the garden path, as he unknowing crossed the Circle of Silver, buried beneath the lush earth. He did not feel the rush of power as the Circle slammed shut behind him, nor could his eyes see the glowing runes spring to life along the foundations of the house.

But she that followed him did know, did feel, did see. It was Old Magic, rediscovered by Merlin and lost again with his passing, but she knew it, for it intimately involved her. Magic of sacrifice, of protection, of love and loss, of life and death.

The man in black raised his hand, pointed his dark wand at the door, blew it off its hinges, and stepped inside.

There was shouting…_Run, Lily, I'll hold him off_! Spellfire of all colors, shouts of Latin amongst the red and green and yellow. Furniture turned into animals and attacked the dark man, or outright exploded. An iron stove sprouted legs, bellowed fire and rushed at the cloaked man – only to be shattered with a simple wave of his wand.

A single jet of green light, an almost sneered _Avada Kedavra_, and there was only sudden, shocking silence. The cloaked man stood, extinguishing the fires smoldering in his robes, healing the damage fists of hardened air had done to him. He stepped over the body of James Potter, and did not hear the sound of dark, soft wings.

Nor did he reflect on the fact that James, skilled in transfiguration and animation, hardened soldier with dozens of curses at his command, had focused so heavily on simple fire and air. He did not see the silver-glowing runes brighten, not appearing along the bottom floor. He did not hear the Circle of Silver humming louder, power thrumming through the bones of the cottage, as he climbed the stairs.

He entered the nursery, and found the woman kneeling in front of the crib that contained her infant son, a shield of rock and jagged ice floating before her. He commanded her to step aside, offering to spare her life, and paid no heed to her pleadings. _No, not Harry. Take me, but leave him alive. Please!_

He was steeped in dark magics, and knew much of sacrificing others, but nothing of the sacrifice of one's self. He did not hear the cottage hum louder, power reaching towards an almost unimaginable peak. He waved his wand, shattering her simple barriers of earth and water.

Another sneer. Another jet of green light, striking next the silver amulet around Lily Potter's neck. Another deep silence, broken only by the unheard flutter of dark wings and the rising sound of old magic, pulled up from the Earth and down from the Stars.

The dark man looked at the infant, did not see the racing silver runes and symbols now crawling up the crib, scrawling themselves along the quiet infant's skin.

_Avada Kedavra!_

Green light raced towards the infant, and power erupted through the silent cottage where green light and skin met. Silver light burst forth, contained by the Circle around the Cottage. There was a brief, short scream, and the sound of a wand collapsing next to burnt, empty robes. And on the infant only a bleeding scar upon his forehead, shaped like a bolt of lightning.

Power thrummed around the house, contained, racing, seeking any threats to a sleeping Harry Potter.

Shadows twisted, forming impressions of large, black wings, as the watcher stepped forth and time…paused.

Short, dark of hair and pale of skin, golden Anhk gleaming at her throat, Death stepped into the nursery of Godric's Hollow.

She nudged the empty robes with her foot, her expression indicating a profound irritation. She muttered, to no one in particular "I dislike cheaters." Turning, she walked towards the crib and peered at the sleeping infant.

"And that simply won't do" she clucked her tongue, and drew her finger along Harry's jagged scar with a peculiar hooking motion, dragging out a screaming, smoky black mass and crushing it in her hand.

She felt the thrumming power around her, still contained in the Circle of Silver, and reached down to Lily Potter's neck and removed the silver pentacle. Turning to the floor length mirror against the wall, she simply said: "Brother, I need you" and waited until the mirror bulged, and Dream stepped forth into the room.

Tall, pale as his sister, with wild black hair, he bowed to Death. "Sister. What can I do for you?"

She pouted, pointing to the empty robes. "I have a cheater. I do not like being denied. His destiny was to end here, tonight, victim of old magics and willing sacrifice. Instead, he lives on, though diminished."

She glanced at the infant. "Destiny will not be denied, you know this. So it will fall to this child, and him alone, to defeat Tom Riddle."

Dream followed her gaze. "And why do you need my help? Child of destiny, powerful villain, slain parents – these are old and common stories. They do not need my help to come to fruition."

"Riddle cheated, brother-mine. He opened a door that should not have been opened, changed the story. I wish to cheat back, brother. I wish to alter the story."

Dream paused. "Destiny will not complain?"

"No, brother. How could he?" She smiled wryly. "This is already written, after all".

"What do you wish then, Eldest Sister?"

"Harry Potter's childhood died tonight. He will need aid and succor to come through the fires, to bring low Tom Riddle." She smiled, frighteningly, twirling the silver pentacle around her fingers. "Find me a story, brother-mine. Find me a dream. Of magic, of heroism, of stubborn valor – find me a warrior spirit."

She glanced down at the sleeping infant, tucking the pentacle necklace around his neck. "Give him a rock to lean upon, Dream. A spirit that will not die, will not quit. Give him a friend, a mentor, a teacher. Give him something to bring Riddle low."

Dream nodded, glancing at the silver pentacle, and reached out to the magic in the house, taking in the power of a warrior's death and a mother's sacrifice, gathering it all in his hands – the magics of life, of fire, of air, earth and water – and reached forth to touch the amulet.

"Sister-mine, I have just the story for him."


	2. Stranger than Fiction

Chapter One: Stranger than Fiction

_Disclaimer: _

_Rather obviously, Harry Potter is the property of JK Rowlings. Death and Dream are the property of Neil Gaiman. Harry Dresden and the Dresden Files are property of Jim Butcher. They'd probably smack me around for the damage I'm doing to their creations. _

My name is Harry Potter, and I am a Wizard. A real, bona-fide, wand-waving, spell-casting, potion-brewing, Wizard. I can even, apparently, do love spells. I don't plan on it, though. I'm a fan of free will.

Well, to be totally accurate, I'm a student wizard. A soon to be student wizard, at a school with a truly outrageous name. And I can't exactly wave my wand right now, and I don't know any spells I could cast with the wand, and I've only just got the potion book. But I've always been able to do magic, and have thought of myself as a wizard for a very long time, despite being introduced to the Wizarding World – as it's called – for the first time last week.

I suppose I should start at a beginning, my birthday. It's not the beginning, but it's a good place to start with, in the madness that is my life.

Birthdays in the Dursley household are loud, obnoxious affairs full of screaming children and ridiculous amounts of presents. Unless they're my birthdays, in which case it's just like any other day. But trust me, that is far better than the alternative.

I was woken up by the usual pounding of heavy footsteps, and the loud shouts of my Uncle to get out of bed and fix breakfast. There was probably something about me being a lazy freeloader, and him being a hard worker, but to be honest I stopped listening to Uncle Vernon's shouting years ago.

I blinked, struggling to put my usual surreal dreams from my head, and struggled my way out of bed, avoiding the sharper springs with the ease of long practice.. My Aunt and Uncle weren't exactly the sort to waste money on me, the orphan nephew born of the no-good, lazy, shiftless parents who had the utter gall to die in a drunken accident. I was, I had been informed my whole life, nothing but an unconscionable burden upon them.

That's probably why I slept in the cupboard under the stairs until sometime after my seventh birthday. So I don't complain about old mattresses. It could be worse.

I pulled on the ratty hand-me-downs that passed as my 'best', tucking away the one memento of my parents I had – a silver pentacle necklace, which had belonged to my mother. Why they had never taken it, if only to sell it, I have never known. My Aunt had only mentioned it once, in passing, and from the sour look on her face it was obvious she did not approve of pentacles in general, and my mother owning one in specific. I try not to question the small miracles in life too closely.

I walked downstairs and quickly started getting breakfast together, taking care not too pass to closely to the more delicate electronics. My Uncle and I had come to an agreement, some years past. He laid off the worst of the verbal and all of the increasingly common physical abuse, and in return I didn't get very angry, scared, or upset - and expensive electronics continue to work properly.

My Uncle is a stupid, short-sighted, and frighteningly fat man – which my cousin Dudley takes after – but he proved he can learn when reality slaps him upside the head. The first time the belt he was about to use on me caught fire and the TV exploded, showering him with glass shards, was one of those rare occasions where Vernon internalized a new fact of life.

From the look on Petunia's face when it happened, she knew exactly what was going on. I didn't bother asking her. Even at seven, I knew my Aunt wasn't going to tell me.

Not long after, I was moved up to the smallest bedroom, which used to contain all of Dudley's spare toys, and all of his books – Dudley not being much of a reader. I got an old, fourth-hand mattress, a desk, and all the shelves and storage containers I could cobble together from broken toys, discarded lumber, and other suburban detritus.

You might call it détente. My loving family still loathed my very existence, but we settled down to a lifetime of mutual animosity with a non-aggression pact.

My loving family is very keen on normalcy. They don't like what Uncle Vernon calls 'freakishness'. They are very big on keeping up appearances, and don't like the "m-word" or the "W-word". Magic and Wizards, spells and incantations, are utterly banned in the Dursley household - I suspect Vernon gets uncomfortable around any form of fiction, really.

I've yet to wave a copy of _A Fire Upon the Deep_ or _I, Robot_ under his nose to see if he shrieks. Détente, I suppose.

When it became obvious that an upset Harry was a Harry doing magic, things changed. Calm, if strained, conversation happened, and it was agreed that in return for cooking breakfast and dinner, a reasonable amount of other chores – defined as 'what you'd be willing to make Dudley do', which turns out to be 'nothing' – I would in return act very normal in public, and do my best not to contaminate my loving relatives with my freakish, magical ways. I really don't mind cooking – it's a useful skill to have.

It got me my own room, in which the Dursleys do not intrude. I got to eat as much as I wished, be left mostly to my own devices, and generally lead a reasonable happy life. My other needs – clothing, furniture and the like – were met with the bare minimum necessary to not have them thrown in jail the second Child Services saw it, and it only took Dudley a few months to realize that his parents weren't going to tolerate him and his friends trying to bully me, simply because it might expose my 'freakishness' to the world.

It was an unpleasant and fearful few months, for everyone involved, but things gradually settled down. I ignore them, they ignore me, except when it's time for food, and everyone goes on about their lives.

I never did tell them I had no idea how the belt caught on fire, or the TV exploded. It was at least a year before I had a grasp on what I done, and how, but it was reliable enough when I was stressed. And like I said – I try not to question miracles too closely, lest the universe notice and take it back.

You're probably wondering why an eleven-year old is so blasé about magic, especially given I've admitted I've only known about the Wizarding World for a week. You might also being saying "Wow, Harry, that's some stellar vocabulary for a kid! And you're so mature!"

Don't forget "Handsome, smart, and with a devastating wit."

But I kid. It's very simple, and more than a bit surreal, and in a way I was lucky I was so young when it happened. Kids are flexible. Had I been an adult, I'd have probable gone to see a shrink. Actually, if I'd lived with a family that actually gave a damn, I'd have probably told them and they'd have taken me to a shrink, and I'd be living a lovely life surrounded by gently padded walls and all the drugs I could take.

As I said though : Dursleys. All the answer you needed to know.

It started July 31st, 1987. I had turned seven that day. I'd been let out of my cupboard, forced to cook, been made to clean the house, and gotten the usual assortment of threats and bruises – mostly from Dudley. Vernon was walking a thin line, and I suspect it was only a matter of months before he went from 'harsh punishments' – even if unfairly given ones – to outright abuse. A solid spanking or even belting wasn't unknown, and he was starting to lose even a modicum of control.

It's like the little green man said: Touch the dark side, and forever will it dominate your destiny. And Vernon was starting to take the dark side out for drinks and trying to get in its pants.

But at the time, bruises were the worst I'd suffered, and the worst ones from Dudley. Which is still pretty out-of-line. I'm not excusing Vernon – it is only fear that keeps him in line. But he's trainable, and I'm out of here as soon as I can be.

I can't recall exactly what set Vernon off, only that he went for the belt. His hand left nasty bruises on my arm, but before he could strike me, the belt caught on fire. And then the TV exploded. It was sometime after dinner – I recall having washed the dishes, and eaten a very meager – even by my standards at the time – amount of food. Whatever happened, it had given Vernon an excuse, which was all he needed in those days.

I got tossed into the cupboard right away, and heard some muffled shouting between Vernon and Petunia. This wasn't the first odd thing that had happened around me – there was the incident with my hair, a few months prior. (She'd shaved my head. Worst haircut you can imagine. Thankfully, it grew back overnight). There was the time I ended up on the roof of a building when Dudley was chasing me. A few other minor incidents of fire, and at least once when Dudley and Co were playing 'Harry Hunting' and they simply didn't see me, despite being out in the open.

I pondered over it a bit, and then fell asleep. There wasn't much else to do.

My dreams that night were…surreal. And they've stayed that way, ever since.

I dreamt another life. And I don't mean "snippets". My dreams felt like days or weeks long, and they were sequential. The next night would start where the previous one had left off. I was another person. I felt his thoughts, his emotions. I _was_ him. I had a different name, a different face, a different history.

It's hard to explain. I wasn't controlling the action, but I wasn't some spectator floating above. I was reliving it, day by day.

I'm pretty sure I dreamt/lived through every waking moment he had. In some ways, that's nice – I got to see what a loving father was like. What having a friend is like. Unfortunately, I didn't get just the good times.

As I said, though, a night's dreaming is days or weeks of Harry's life. He and I were the same age, when it started. Now? I'm eleven, and when I sleep, I'm Harry Dresden, 23 years old and trying to make his living as a wizard private eye in Chicago. If it wasn't for the serious date discrepancy – for instance, it's 1991 for me and 1996 for him – I'd be tempted to see if he was real.

But this isn't Harry Dresden's story, it's mine.

But that's how I came to learn about magic. By the time I was nine, I had a pretty fair grasp on some of it. I don't think my magic and his are entirely the same. I can do some things – like that time I teleported – that he would think is impossible. But I've found I can do his sort of magic, although I'm frustratingly weak.

But that's to be expected – wizards don't come into their power until puberty, that I can do it at all is significant.

But part of me thinks I'm a 23 year old wizard with power to burn, rather than an eleven year old who should be lucky he can light candles and do the simplest thaumaturgy. I don't even want to know what this is doing to my brain, but I can only assume it's forced some mental development.

Living with the Dursley's would have forced any kid to grow up – I was a pretty mature kid, even before the dreams. Ironically, seeing through Dresden's eyes helped me regain a bit of the joy of youth. I can enjoy a good prank, and don't feel so grown-up I can't spend an hour or two on a playground.

It does make it tough to find friends, but you develop a bit of a thick-skin where immaturity and fart-fascination is concerned, and you can do all right.

But back to my eleventh birthday, and cooking breakfast. While the pigs were feeding at the trough, I went to go get the mail, and found a letter addressed to Harry Potter. Which was unusual, as I never got mail.

It wasn't your usual junk mail; it was honest-to-God parchment complete with wax seal. The seal was a bit ostentatious – the usual over assorted regalia that seems to drip from everything here in merry old England - did I mention Dresden was American, and proud of it? I've spent more time speaking English like a proper American than like a Brit. It annoys my teachers something fierce. It also annoys Uncle Vernon, and annoying your ideological foes is part and parcel of my familial Cold War.

I dropped the rest of the mail off with the Dursleys, sat down, and cracked my envelope. I read it. Read it again. Stared at it for awhile while tapping my fingers on the table and thinking about it. On the one hand, I knew magic was real. I practiced it often, and dreamt about it at night. On the other hand – pointed hats? Cauldrons? _Wands_? Cat, owl or toad familiars? _Broomsticks_? I know the Old World was a bit traditional, but stars and stones – they weren't this cliché.

I couldn't dismiss it outright. For one, Petunia and Vernon's phobia about magic was always a little more "I don't want it around" than "That's impossible". Petunia especially seemed angry, but unsurprised. I had never bothered to chase it down, since it hadn't occurred to me until well after we'd all happily settled into the "I leave you alone, you leave me alone, and the TV stays unharmed" agreement.

So I tilted the envelope so that Aunt Petunia could see the Hogwarts seal, and asked "So, Aunt, is there something you'd like to tell me?" Bingo.

It took awhile, but I got the whole long, gory story. Starting with how my parents really died (Dark Wizard. It seems that magic always brings out the Darth Helmet wanna-bees), the existence of a magical world (and the wands. And even the broomsticks, god help me), and me ending up on their doorstep in a basket, despite being a toddler.

That was probably the strangest of all. Not magic, not even broomsticks, and certainly not dark wizards – but right after Halloween, someone stuck me – a toddler – on a doorstep with just a note and a blanket. No paperwork, no court documents, no will, no nothing. They said the paperwork for school showed up, so someone – somewhere – must have filed something. Someone owed me one hell of an explanation, and once I shot up a few inches, I probably owed them a good kicking - or at least a lecture on basic child-care.

The look on Vernon's face when I said what I thought about the abject stupidity of someone leaving me like that was priceless. I think it's the first time we ever agreed on anything. I dragged Petunia into the living room and picked her brain clean on Hogwarts, the Wizarding World, and anything she could recall about my arrival on her doorstep.

She dug out the note that was left on my blanket. I'm a bit curious as to why a schoolmaster was leaving babies on doorsteps, but I suppose I'd get a chance to ask him fairly quickly. Dresden would probably have gone to dig it out of the old man straight away, but I'm just eleven. My best intimidating glare makes me look like I have something in my eye. It does not cause my foes to tremble in fear, but does make their eyes itch in sympathy.

One thing I did know – magic was dangerous. I had a good grounding in Dresden's magic, but I didn't know if this broomstick stuff followed the same rules. So like it or not, meddling old man or not, I was going to Hogwarts. But first, with what my Aunt remembered, I was going to Diagon Alley.

No, seriously. _That's what they call it._ I'm hoping it's ironic, or some form of code to cover slips among the mundane types. They're big on secrecy, I've been told.

So I got Vernon to drop me off at the station, took a train to London, and found myself right outside a grimy little place called "The Leaky Cauldron", which would have been a truly face-palm worthy name, for wizards hoping to stay secret, if I hadn't seen people walk by obviously not seeing it.

I could feel the tingle of magic against my skin, emanating from the building. I wasn't really willing to open up my Sight – I'd only used it once before, and experimenting while facing the probably well-warded entrance to a secret society of wizards didn't seem like a good idea, but I had a pretty good idea of what the ward was doing. I don't think people were ignoring it just because it was a bit low-rent. I cranked my sense of magic down as low as I could get it. If the "Nothing to see here" wards were humming that strong, I'd need to gradually build up tolerance before I could handle feeling that much magic.

The weight of my blasting rod under my jacket was comforting. If scared enough, or angry enough, with it I could manage a sizeable enough blast of fire or wind to cover an escape. I checked to make sure it wasn't tangled, ready to draw, and again wished I had started coming into my power. I wasn't yet developed enough to get a sense for my own elemental affinities, but fire was always a good distraction. People got excited about fire, and tended to ignore children running away in lieu of rolling around, trying to put it out.

I jammed my hat down a little lower on my head, covering my scar. I wanted to be discreet and unremembered, a basic precaution learned from Dresden's life, and that ruddy thing was the most memorable of my features. I mulled about trying to spring for a plastic surgeon as I opened the door and stepped into an exciting new world of magic.


	3. A Quick Trip to the Bank

_Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot. And I might have rented that from someone in Belgium. I'll have to check my receipts. I certainly don't own Harry Potter or the Dresden Files. If I did, I'd be driving around wearing hats made out of money._

_Author's Note: As I'm using a far more mature Harry, I'm indulging in several cliches to give him a leg up on the wizarding world. Hopefully I will manage to balance that properly, later. While I'm giving him resources now, rest assured I will balance that with extra trouble later. He will know much Canon Harry did not figure out until much later, if at all. However, because he does, he'll be able to get into much more trouble, albeit of a different stripe. Ignorance is sometimes bliss, after all. Thank you to all who reviewed, I deeply appreciate constructive feedback. I'm still struggling to set the proper tone and give Harry his own voice - he's influenced by, but is not, Harry Dresden. I want the tone of the Dresden files, but am hoping to Merlin I'm not running a pint-sized Dresden through Hogwarts! I admit, I can't write British slang worth a flip, so sadly Dresden's awful influence has thoroughly Americanized him. _

Chapter Two: A Quick Trip to the Bank

The exciting new world of magic looked, at first sight, looked exactly like a dingy pub filled with very unfashionable people. Judging by the clothing, Wizards here lived as long as Dresden's wizards – and included a love of robes, and not just for those really important formal occasions, like listening to people decide whether to cut your head off or not. At least they probably didn't speak Latin, or my letter probably would mention it. I'd been taking Latin in school, so I was a bit better at it than Dresden, but that's not saying much – he was taking it by correspondence, and couldn't conjugate a verb properly if his life depended on it.

I looked around, spotting the bar and the middle-aged bartender cleaning a dirty glass with an even dirtier rag. I shivered, and vowed never to eat here. And possibly burn my clothes when I got home. "Find the owner. His name was Bob or Tom or something like that" my Aunt had told me."He can show you the way in."

So I walked up to him, and waited until he put down the rag. "I got a letter. It says I can get supplies here? Also, apparently I need to 'respond by Owl'. Know where I can borrow one?" I said, showing him my letter.

"Sure" he said, after eyeing the seal on the letter. "Mister…?"

"Dresden. Harry Dresden" I replied, confidently. The first rule of 'incognito' is you don't talk about incognito. Or give out your actual name. "The letter was not terribly helpful." I confided.

"You can call me Tom." He looked a bit skeptical. "You didn't get a muggle-born packet?"

My look of confusion at the term 'muggle' must have been answer enough, as he explained. "Muggle-borns are supposed to get their letters from a professor, who explains all about the magic world – including how to get here, and get supplies. They should have talked to your parents." He paused, giving me a closer look. "How did you get here if you didn't get a Professor's visit?"

"Well, my Aunt knows a little bit about it. Her sister was a witch, but she died. I guess they thought my Aunt knew more than she does?" That was the current theory Aunt Petunia and I were working under, at least.

"Oh, she's must be a squib. Squibs don't always want to stay a part of our world." He put the glass down, looking thoughtful. "I guess that's why your Aunt didn't come in with you, too painful." He straightened up, walking around the edge of the bar. "You can get a muggle-born packet at Flourish and Bott's, along with your books. It's right past Gringott's, next to the Owl post. Come round back and I'll let you into the Alley."

I followed Tom out the back door, wondering what a squib was. Gringott's I knew – it was the Wizarding bank. I had high hopes I could get some information about my parents there, as they seemed to handle some of the legal aspects of the Wizarding world – inheritance and the like - at least that was Aunt Petunia's impression.

We went down a narrow alley, stopping at the grubby brick wall that closed off the far end. Tom pulled out a wand – slim wood, maybe a foot long, no runes or carvings – and tap bricks. The pattern was easy enough, a pentagram based on two off-color white bricks.

The way the bricks folded back into themselves and opened up onto a crowded marketplace that _didn't actually fit into the geographical location_ was a bit shocking. And by shocking, I mean "broke my brain". Dresden had seen some powerful works of magic – he'd seen people shift form, call down lightning; he'd even fought against one of the nightmares of the universe – an Outsider.

But something bigger on the inside than the outside, a magical freakin' TARDIS? _No way._

I stared at the opening to Diagon Alley in shocked silence, until Tom gave me a friendly little nudge and sent me through the archway. Once my brain restarted, I took a good look around, trying to get a feel for the place. Diagon Alley was…well, take a Renaissance Faire. Dump in the contents of the Dungeon Master's Guide – both volumes. Stir in a helping of every bad fantasy novel and comic ever written, and finally season heavily with color-blindness.

That'd give you a hint of what I was staring at.

"I love seeing kids see it for the first time." Tom said, smiling brightly. "We tend to take magic for granted, as we get older. Now, are you going to be all right, Harry? Do you need me to go find your Aunt?"

I shook myself. My inner child was still screaming "NEAT!" at the top of his lungs, but I made myself focus on Tom's words.

"I'll be fine, Sir. Just a little surprising. And impressive. Is that the bank?" I said, pointing to the elaborate, marble-coated building.

"Yep, that's Gringotts. Mind your manners there, Harry. And stay out of Knockturn Alley. It's not an area for kids."

I nodded, mentally snickering at "Knockturn Alley", gave a cheerful wave, and headed towards Gringotts.

Diagon Alley wasn't that crowded, which let me clearly see stores that seemed to advertise everything under the sun. And so much of it was moving, twitching, blowing colorful bubbles, and generally exuding an air of unrestrained and exuberant magical-ness, for lack of a better term. I passed vendors and stores selling clothes, weapons, potions supplies, pets - I absently noted that newt's eyes were 50% off this week only as I rubbernecked my way down the street. I passed by a store selling brooms – which had several of the kids in the Alley nose-up against the glass, excitedly chattering about the new "Nimbus" broom, which made me suspect they were the flying type, not the sweeping type.

I noted a few buildings I needed to follow up on for my shopping list – the apothecary, the bookstore I spotted further down the Alley, and the Owl Post – I did need to send my acceptance to Hogwarts, after all. There was an Owl Emporium – they seemed to have a strange Owl fascination. An astronomy store specializing in telescopes, orreries, and star charts, and another store that seemed to specialize in travelling equipment and house-hold goods - trunks, tents and all sorts of magical furniture.

Mentally noting the trunk store – perhaps I could find something with the TARDIS-enchantment in luggage form, I continued down to the marble-lined columns of Gringotts bank. I passed by the armored Goblins, trying not to gawk, and read the rather gruesome and specific warning message posted on the outside of the bank.

The Goblins looked very familiar to the ones Dresden had seen in one his trips through the Nevernever. I lacked the power to open a gate into the Nevernever and thus had never tried, but Goblins wandering right out in the open and the mention of 'dragon hide gloves' in my Hogwarts letter was leading me to wonder if it even existed here. It seemed all the beasties and monsters that haunted the Nevernever in Dresden's world lived cheek by jowl with wizards in this one.

I walked into the bank, shivering under the strength of the wards, and got into line. I looked around at the guards and the bank proper, noted what looked like non-magical couple – you could tell by the lack of robes and the appearance of a basic sense of color and style – standing at a small desk to the side, exchanging pounds for some gold coins. According to the sign, it was five pounds to the "G" – maybe that was the gold coin? I shrugged as the line moved, until I found myself face to face with a teller.

Hmm, I thought, looking at all the teeth and the bored, superior attitude of the goblin at the ornate desk, definitely a predator, with a Winter vibe. What's polite to a goblin? Let's go with "Time is Money". It's a bank, after all. I glanced at the nameplate on his desk.

"Bonesplicer, my name is Harry and I understand my parents had accounts here, as well as possibly some legal documents. Whom do I need to speak to in order about that?"

"Name?" he demanded, with a sneer. Yep, definite Winter vibe.

"I'd prefer to be discreet, Bonesplicer. My business is my own." It may seem paranoid, but I was a stranger in a strange land. My last encounter with which involved a Dark Wizard and then being left on a doorstep, like a bottle of milk. Until I had some actual intelligence on this place and culture, I wasn't taking chances.

He grinned, and not a nice one, and tapped a raised rune, and I felt magic swirl up behind me.

"Name?" he repeated, a bit more loudly.

I resisted the urge to look behind me and stated "Potter".

"Harry Potter?" he inquired, eyes flickering to my cap. Interesting, I thought. He knows about the scar. Why would he know about the scar?

"So I've been told." At his glower, I made a mental note - my innate sense of humor does not impress goblins, and they seem to delight in intimidating small children.

He pressed another button on his desk. "Wait over there." He said, waving a black claw at a small sitting area. "Griphook will be with you shortly."

The magic behind me fell, and I nodded by thanks, wished him a good day – garnering another sneer in the process, although I'd like to think it was a happy sneer – and went to sit down. The wait wasn't long too long. Another goblin, a bit taller and seemingly younger, came out of a small recessed door to the right, well before I'd become bored enough to start singing and harassing other patrons.

He walked right up to me and said "Follow me" and started back towards the recessed door. He hadn't asked my name, but the only other person sitting with me was an elderly witch, so good odds this was Griphook.

I stood and followed him out of the bank lobby and into a warren of cubicles – it cheered me up to see modern business in action, torturing goblins with their open-plan office designs – and finally into a small, closed office. Wow. Griphook rated a door and a sizeable desk complete with buttons, and even a bookcase filled with binders. I apparently rated middle-management. I was ushered to a seat in front of the desk.

Griphook sat. "Before we can continue, Mister Potter, I need to verify your identity." He pushed forward a piece of parchment and a quill. In the bored tone of one reciting a legal necessity, he continued "As per Decree 156.43.4 of the 783rd Wizmagot, I am required to inform you that this is a blood quill, a registered level three Dark Artifact. Its use is restricted to certain binding contracts, and internal uses at Gringotts." He sat back. "Please sign your name on the parchment. It will draw blood automatically. The scratches will heal instantly."

I picked up the quill and stared at it dubiously. "You want me to sign a blank piece of paper, in _blood_? What assurances do I have that I'm not about to sign over my soul?". Blood is a powerful sympathetic link. Get a hold of some blood, especially fresh, and you can use it to target magic at its owner without having to go anywhere near him. Wizards tended to be a bit paranoid about leaving blood, toenail clippings, or hair lying around for exactly that reason. If someone's going to hex me, I want them to do it where I can see them. And hex them back.

He shrugged. "It's a standard identification measure, and considerably more pleasant than any of the other rituals to determine lineage. I cannot let you access even your trust vault, much less discuss your finances, without proof of identity. Since you are lacking your key, it is blood one way or another. It is completely used up by the process of identification, if that is your objection."

I tapped my fingers, staring at the quill, then shrugged. Predators they may be, but they ran the major banking system, which meant they were trusted to a degree at least. I was hoping that if it started binding me to a contract in some way, or using it as a vector for a spell, that I could tell before I finished signing – and set the the paper and the blood on fire.

Pulling the parchment towards me, I signed my name with a flourish, ignoring the scratches on the back of my hand. The paper sat there for a few seconds with "Harry James Potter" written across it, as if ensuring I was done writing, and then glowed blue briefly as a series of numbers and letters began to ink their way across the parchment.

Griphook glanced at it, grunted, and then dug a thick folder out from the bookcase behind him. He touched a rune on his desk, barking something in a particularly nasty-sounding language, and then opened the folder. He slid the parchment into a bronze dish, where it promptly burst into flames, and turned to face me.

"Well, Mister Potter, it is indeed good to see you. What can Gringotts do for you today? I have taken the liberty of arranging for new keys, and recalling any old ones."

Well, that was simple enough, I thought and replied "An overview of any assets here at Gringotts, and if you have them, I'd like to see my parent's wills."

Griphook turned to back to the bookcase, grabbing a plain leather book off the shelf and placing it next to the folder. He tapped each with his claws while muttering in that strange language. There was a surge of magic, and he slid the book to me. It was now simply labeled "Potter" and secured with a silver clasp.

"That's your account booklet. It shows the totals of the Potter vaults, and any requirements for access to those vaults. Your trust vault is listed first. It is linked to your main account ledger, and will update automatically. Don't lose it; there is a hefty fee for replacement. The first page should be a synopsis of your Vaults and access levels. I will give you a few moments to peruse it, while I inquire as to your parent's wills. Don't touch anything else." He growled, getting up and walked out the door.

Resisting the urge to randomly push buttons on his desk, I opened the ledger. I had three Vaults – labeled Harry Potter Trust, Heirloom, and Potter Main. The Heirloom vault was listed 'non-monetary'. The other two had sizeable sums listed under them, in terms of 'galleons', 'sickles', and 'knuts'.

Judging by the order, galleons were largest unit of currency– the exchange rate I saw was five pounds per, which meant I was well off. Mentally translating everything to the more familiar currency, I skimmed the list. Trust vault capped and full at 50,000 pounds, Potter main at close to five million, garnering a decent rate of return. Although, I noted, a big chunk of that was deposited November of 1981 – my parents had had some form of life insurance, or else assets had been sold after their death. I continued skimming through the ledger. One property, Godric's Hollow, listed as 'disrepair (Historical)'. Two others in long-term leases, both with several years left before renewal. Main Vault closed until my 17th birthday, monthly stipend to guardians of 500 pounds – which doesn't seem to have ever been paid. Hogwarts tuition apparently paid in advance out of the main Vault. 5000 pounds transferrable yearly to trust. Heirloom vault, restricted access – I could apparently visit, but only allowed to remove something called 'linking journals' and any items I myself stored there until 17th birthday.

Last non-routine account activity was late November of 1981– listed "deposit of surviving effects, Godric's Hollow" by one Albus Dumbledore. I sighed. He might have been prone to leaving babies on doorsteps, but at least he seems to have done a few things right - such as make sure my parents' effects were stored away.

I flipped through the book, until I found an itemized list of items in the Heirloom vaults. Books, books, ancestral wands, armor, more books, weapons, Potter Grimoire…I mentally circled that. Grimoire was one of those words that made a wizard sit up and pay attention.

I drummed my fingers on the desk, trying to puzzle out some of the items – I was pondering the entry on something called a "snitch" that my family had apparently acquired from England's win in a World Cup in the early 15th century when Griphook returned.

He sat back down at his desk and said "I have been able to locate your parents' wills. They are sealed, by order of the Wizengamot, until your 17th birthday. The magic embedded in the wills indicates that the disbursements have been handled legally and correctly. As part of the order to have the wills sealed, your magical guardianship was assigned to Albus Dumbledore – indicating either your parents did not name an eligible guardian, or that Wizengamot voted to overrule their wishes."

"Is that legal? Also, I am currently living with my Aunt and Uncle, not Dumbledore, and we have not yet received any of the funds for my care."

"The Wizengamot functions as something akin to the high court of law. It is certainly within their power to change or modify the guardianship of minors, thought it is usually done at a department level. As to your muggle guardians…" Griphook paused, pulling the folder to himself and flipping through it. "Dumbledore has not claimed the guardian stipend, and you have no other guardians on file. As it is for your daily expenses, your Aunt and Uncle may claim the stipend as long as you life beneath their roof."

I grinned evilly. "Griphook, suppose I volunteered to handle the stipend? I would hate to continue to impose on my relatives, and they would not feel comfortable travelling to Diagon Alley to handle it."

Griphooked opened a desk drawer and pulled out a leather wallet. "This is a mokeskin wallet." He said. "Once bound to you, only you can retrieve anything from it. For a small fee, we can tie this to your account, so that you can retrieve money from it without having to physically visit Gringotts. Since your relatives are obviously non-magical, for another small fee – and only because you are the scion of an old and valued client – we could arrange the stipend to be paid into the wallet. A non-magical can't use a mokeskin wallet, but Gringotts' trusts that the funding would make its way to the proper hands…." He grinned, sharp teeth glinting.

"Define 'small fee'?" I said, settling in to haggle.

Ten minutes later, I was the proud owner of a mokeskin wallet tied to my trust vault as well as my monthly support stipend. It could hold twenty-five hundred pounds and five hundred galleons - any overflow was retained in my trust Vault. Ten percent of my monthly stipend went to Griphook – I mean 'Gringotts' – as a 'fee for services'. The pouch would refill when empty, for a flat five galleon fee per refill. Another ten galleons a month got me automatic currency conversion. It also had an inner pouch for my Vault keys. If I lost it, a 'mere' 200 galleon would see everything, wallet and contents, replaced. (Apparently they could just "suck it back out" the same way they put it in. Neat trick, that.). I'm pretty sure I got screwed on the whole deal, but Griphook seemed to enjoy the bargaining. His toothy grins went from "I wonder what you taste like roasted with garlic" to more of a friendly "I wonder how much I can win against him in cards" sort of way. It felt like a step up.

Griphook and I spent a few more minutes discussing investments – Dresden's world was close enough to mine, and he paid just enough attention to the goings on in the world outside of Chicago, for me to suggest a few up-and-coming companies - one of the women Dresden had dated had been a broker of some sort, and used to talk shop a lot. I could invest up to a quarter of my trust vault, and happily did so. That got me up to "I wonder how much I can win against him in cards and still get him to come back and play next week?" on the Griphook-grin scale.

That completed, I had Griphook guide me down to the heirloom vault.

After a rather exciting roller-coaster ride, which included a sleeping dragon snorting out puffs of flame as we passed, apparently there to act as the worlds biggest, meanest, fire-breathing guard dog, I arrived at the Potter Heirloom Vault.

Before I entered, Griphook informed me he was returning to his office and that I merely needed to ring the bell inside to summon another cart. I nodded curtly, wished him a profitable day – I didn't feel right wishing him the chance to eat kittens or whatever it is Goblins did on a good day, and the well-wishes got me another evil grin in return. Possibly he was off to do something cheerful, like repossess an orphanage.

My Heirloom Vault is, effectively, a really big cave full of junk. Right in front of the door is a stack of wooden crates and boxes, then there's sort of a barricade of furniture peeking out behind that. It's all covered in dust, and lit dimly by torches. I hoped they were magical torches. I didn't want to have to replace them myself, or god forbid, negotiate a 'small fee' for torch-replacement services with Griphook.

My first impression was that I was from a family of packrats. The front pile of boxes and crates were piled haphazardly and unlabeled. I opened a few and judging from the infant toys, dishes, and magazines dating back to 1980, I guessed this is the stuff Dumbledore rescued from the Godric's Hollow property. Which, I realized with a curse, I had completely forgotten to ask Griphook about.

Eh, I thought, it's not like I could move in there. I'm eleven. I'll owl him about it later, I decided, and tack on a request for emancipation options in the Wizarding world. Since Hogwarts was pre-funded, the yearly upkeep on my vault would cover summers and general expenses, if I was frugal. I doubted I could get emancipated any earlier than 14 or 15, so there was no rush.

I passed the casually dumped Godric's Hollow stuff – absently noting the lack of books – and found that the furniture wall behind it basically split the room into three segments. Off along the left wall was a veritable armory, weapons and armor from several eras on display. I'm pretty sure I saw a legionnaire's uniform at the very back. On the right there were several tables covered in blue glowing boxes backed by a wall full of wands. Straight up the middle was the mother lode, however. The back wall was covered in bookshelves, and more shelves curved out into a hemisphere centered on a simple white marble pedestal holding a thick tome.

I started straight for it. Hey, I was a wizard. See old tome, read old tome. That's how it goes. Blue glowing boxes and shiny swords – none of which I could take out of here – could wait. Anything I read, however, I could memorize – or if I came back, copy. I can bring in books and take them back out, after all.

Besides, the whole purpose of this trip – other than school supplies – was intelligence. That was a lesson Dresden, and thus I, learned early. You needed to _know_ as much as you could. At the very least, I had a month to catch up on the cultural and magical basics of a totally foreign world. And I'd bet half the money in my trust vault that the bookshelves ahead of me held some of the knowledge I needed.

The tome on the pedestal was labeled "Potter Family Grimoire", which had be rubbing my hands together with glee. I thumbed the latch, and felt a slight sting in my finger – more blood magic, the best way I knew of to tie spells and enchantments into family lines, and an excellent security system. The lock clicked, and the book opened, rapidly flipping through pages until it stopped on a page titled "Linking Journals". Convenient, I thought, and started to read.

Two minutes later I let out a whoop and danced a little jig. Linking journals were sympathetic magic at its finest, magic Dresden would have killed for – or at least bodily assaulted for. Those bookcases were heavily expanded, holding more books than it appeared, and contained the Potter Family Library, which was tied to the pedestal, which was tied to the Grimoire. And linking journals tied into the Grimoire, meaning I could carry the library with me wherever I went. It wasn't the biggest Family Library, from what I was reading - not even close, but it had been growing for hundreds of years and was quite respectable. It certainly had every reference I would need for school, all integrated through the pedestal and the linking journals, including some blessed ancestor's contribution – a self-indexing and categorization function, complete with crude search features.

Centuries of use and modification, coupled with the living and adaptive nature of magic, had created something truly, well, _magical._

All I needed was a blank journal – there were instructions on how to create one, although it required a wand and what looked like some expensive materials, and a whole lot of time. That was moot, thankfully, as there was a very large box full of prepared blanks. I took out two, and placed the first into an empty slot on the pedestal. I leafed through the linking instructions, looked back down at the pedestal, and carefully pressed three runes in sequence.

I thanked God for whatever Potter had idiot-proofed this process, and pressed the final rune. Monkey see, monkey do, monkey make magic pedestal work.

There was a flash, and the journal slid out. It was nice green leather, with a metal lock holding the Potter coat of arms, and keyed to the Potter bloodline. It was currently set to open only for me, and allow only me to read from it – anyone trying to read over my shoulder would see boring gibberish, randomly taken from a handful of books on a specific shelf – mostly full of bad romance novels, I found out.

The linking journal, courtesy of the spells implanted by the Pedestal, would look wholly unremarkable to an observer. People would simply assume it was a school book, or a work of fiction, something truly unimportant and not worth thinking about. It'd take a strong and obsessive mind to see past the glamour, and if they did – the Potter crest etched across it's cover and worked into the lock was sufficient to mark it as a family property.

Unless the law had changed since the instructions were written, family tomes – even copies – were untouchable. This was true of any grimoire, even if it contained just blank pages and was freshly enchanted. Bloodlines, family size - none of that mattered. Grimoires were above that, something passed down from Merlin. My journal would echo a copy of any book in the library, including the grimoire, with just the touch of a finger. Searchable, categorized by subject, year-level….it wasn't Bob the Skull, but it'd do. It'd do nicely.

I grinned, cradling what I had decided to call my "Everybook". I did my best Gollum impersonation "My precious, oh yes, my precious, precious bookessess" for a few moments, before putting it aside and picking up the second blank journal, which I promptly slid into the Pedestal. This one took a good twenty minutes of pressing runes and flipping pages on the Grimoire before I was finished. Thankfully someone had added in a cheat-sheet to the cheat-sheet, helpfully entitled "For People Too Stupid To Have Taken Ancient Runes" that had a handy table of what I needed to push, and where it was physically located on the Pedestal. I did resolve to take Ancient Runes, whatever that was.

Once the second book was done percolating, I had my second linked journal – one that went the other way. It too was linked to the Potter bloodline and anything I wrote in it would duplicate in the library. The first several pages were filled with instructions on how to mark it so that it would be organized by year, subject, or any one of another few dozen categories for ease of searching. It wouldn't run out of pages, and if it were ever destroyed or lost, I could simply return to the Vault and get an up-to-date copy.

Cradling my journal and everybook, in what I admit was possibly a slightly creepy fashion, I spent another hour or so wandering through the Vault. The armory was fascinating – hopefully there was a history or something in the everybook detailing where we got this stuff and why. The glowing-boxes area was even more interesting, as each of the glowing boxes held something living – eggs, seeds, and infant creatures – shrunk down in some sort of stasis. After looking through them, and being a bit shocked by some of the labels – we had a cockatrice and a griffin, among others, I walked to the wand covered wall and played with the wands a bit, just to get a feel for them.

They weren't like my blasting rods. Not even remotely. No carvings, few held any symbols or runes, generally just a single smooth piece of wood that looked almost organic, as if it were grown instead of carved. Each had at least one name attached to it, the previous owner's I guessed. Some had two names – the owner, and the Potter who'd taken it in battle. Holding one, I opened myself up a little bit, and could feel a…resonance…between the wand and something deep inside me.

It was off, like a badly tuned engine, but it was there. I recognized what the wand was resonating with – it was the same place I had called upon when I teleported, my internal store of magic.

Dresden's magic – my magic - was power pooled, brought in from the world around me, and focused through belief. It is magic of the mind and heart, requiring deep conviction – and I was beginning to wonder if anyone else here could do it. What I felt from the wand - that was something else. Not better or worse, and still magic – just different.

I nodded to myself, and placed the wand back on the wall before heading to the entrance and tugging the bell-pull. As the Vault door opened and I stepped outside to wait, I decided a wand needed to be next. A wand was the core of wizardry here, so it made sense to make it my next stop. Luggage after, hopefully something TARDIS-style, then the rest of my supplies – if I was lucky, I'd find materials I could experiment with. My blasting rod was currently my only focus, and the thought of making a shield focus out of some of the already magical materials out there was rather exciting. If nothing else, I bet Diagon Alley would have the tools and basic, mundane materials I'd need if things like dragon-hide didn't pan out.

On the bright side, I could now pay the Dursley's off, so perhaps I could get out of chores entirely - especially since I could bribe them with the thought of nine Harry-free months a year. That'd give me a month to dig through my everybook, to try to get a feel for this new world, before my train left.


	4. Problems Focusing

_Rather obviously, Harry Potter is the property of JK Rowlings. Death and Dream are the property of Neil Gaiman. __Harry Dresden and  
the Dresden Files belong to Jim Butcher. They'd probably smack me around for the damage I'm doing to their creations._

Chapter 3: Problems Focusing

Applied magic is nothing but energy and will. All the tools, the gewgaws - in a strict sense, they're absolutely unnecessary for magic. All you need is, at most, a simple circle and everything else can be done through sheer mental effort. The problem lies in the sheer complexity hidden in the phrase 'mental effort' - adding 1+1 is a 'mental effort'. So is solving complex problems in quantum mechanics. Which one would you prefer to solve without so much as a pencil? Tossing around torrents of wind and flame may look simple, but actually doing it requires the caster to focus intently on several things at once.

It's like trying to sing a Beatles song, while visualizing a complex structure, as you play a sonata on the piano. It can be done - with enough practice. But really, it's so much easier to turn on the radio, throw down a photo, and slap some Beethoven on the record player. Magically, it's exactly the same.

Wizards call their tools 'foci' for a reason - they give a physical focus for all that mental effort, allowing the wizard to concentrate on other things. Using a blasting rod, I don't have to think about how to guide the energy. I point my blasting rod where I want the magic to go. Creating the blasting rod took weeks of hard work, but using it is pretty dead simple. Staves and more complex foci could take months or years of work to create, but again using them was orders of magnitude easier than doing without. But a focus tended to be unique - magic and thought were related, and people didn't tend to think exactly the same. An apprentice might be able to use his master's staff almost like his own - key word _almost_ - but a random mage trying to use my blasting rod would find it only marginally better than a stick plucked off the ground.

The best focus is almost always the one you build yourself. There are exceptions - there are always exceptions - but it's a pretty solid rule of thumb.

The individual, unique nature of a focus was weighing heavily on my mind as I left Gringotts. I wasn't comfortable with the thought of just buying one from a store, it seemed almost heretical. I stepped back out into the hustle of Diagon Alley, wincing again the name, and idly wondering if Piers Anthony had been a Wizard. It would certainly explain Xanth.

I spotted the Wand shop - a place called "Ollivander's", and made my way across the cobbled street. The store looked unprepossessing, just a narrow storefront built around a dirty, smudged window display. I peered into the window, through the dirt - a single smooth wand rested on a dusty velvet pillow. Opening the door, I stepped into the cool dimness, and immediately felt the hackles on my neck rise up.

"Hello?" I called out, looking around nervously. I could spot a small, curtained off doorway leading to the back behind the counter, but the rest of the place was taken up by thousands and thousands of tiny boxes, looking almost like old-style card catalogues. I muttered to myself "It's like the world's creepiest librarian lives here".

"Good day, Mister Potter."

I spun around, heart in my throat. My books hit the floor as I snatched out my blasting rod, aiming it at the voice behind me. An elderly shopkeeper, eyes wide in amused surprise, looked back at me over my blasting rod. Oops. On the one hand, endless hours of practice made for a credibly fast draw. On the other, I'd just pointed a carved stick at a man who made magic wands. I couldn't help but feel I had set myself up as one of the more amusing idiots of the Wizarding World.

The man, a dusty thin old relic, merely smiled. He tapped the blasting rod with his finger. "Interesting, Mister Potter. I see you shall be a challenge."

I sheepishly put it away. It had started out life as one of Dudley's drumsticks, and despite sigils etched deeply into it in a spiraling pattern, it remained almost defiantly drumstick shaped. Somehow, I didn't feel it presented an image of wizarding prowess.

He continued. "I remember when your parents were here. Your mother favored 10 inches of cherry, with a unicorn hair core. Supple, good for charms. Your father favored beech, with a dragon's heart-string core. 11 inches. Excellent for transfiguration."

A tape measure floated up from behind the counter as he ushered me into the middle of the store. "Which is your wand hand, Mister Potter?"

Staring at the floating tape measure I absently responded "Right hand. Power exits from the right." Double oops. That got me another raised eyebrow, as the tape measure floated over to me and began measuring everything.

Yes, everything.

I sighed as the tape continued to measure. I was doing a bang-up job on remaining inconspicuous. Maybe he'd believe I wanted to be in a band, and was buying my drum set one piece at a time.

Ollivander started digging out boxes from the shelves, muttering to himself. "No…yes, maybe. Definitely not. Curious….". I was patient with it for a few minutes, before waving at the tape measure.

"Is this thing really necessary? I think it just measured my eyebrows." I said, trying to bat the thing away.

"I think that's sufficient" he said, bringing several boxes to the counter as the tape measure floated off to do whatever magic tape measures did. He opened the first box, taking out a slim length of wood, and said "Take it and give it a wave".

And thus began the most annoying, occasionally frightening, and oft-times explosive two hours of my life. Wand after wand, complete with comments like "Rowan, 14 inches, hard and unyielding. Core from a particularly temperamental Welsh Green" and "Ash, unusually flexible, with a unicorn-hair core", was placed into my hand for a good wave.

The moment a wand would touch my hand, I felt resonance – badly tuned resonance, although 'how bad' varied. The second I waved it, magic would flow erratically to my hand and spurt out the end of the wand. Things shattered, or exploded, or flew off the walls, or got soaked in water, or caught on fire, or occasionally animated. I'm pretty sure I conjured a chicken at one point.

Even Ollivander must have gotten sick of it, because as a pair of boxes waltzed across the counter - the result of my last good wave - he stepped back and waved his own wand, restoring the store to its previous condition. Including thick coatings of dust, the old faker. I bet he played up the creepy vibe on purpose, getting his jollies from making kids jump.

He ducked into the back, before returning with a single box. "I wonder, Mister Potter" he said, tapping the box with one finger "I have had this wand for fifty years. Holly and phoenix feather" he added, as he placed it in my hands.

I felt the resonance, better tuned than anything else I had tried. I waved it, and felt warm power stutter down my arm. Ugly, off-yellow sparks flew from the end, then blew a two foot hole in the counter. It felt like...eating your favorite childhood dish, prepared by someone else. Close, but not what you really wanted.

I sheepishly placed the wand back. "I don't think this one is it either. It's closer than the others, but the flow is still" I paused, trying to describe it "erratic, I guess."

That got another raised eyebrow. "You can feel the magic? Most intriguing." He clucked his tongue. "I suppose, Mister Potter, we shall have to do this the hard way." He walked to the door and flipped the sign to 'Closed'.

"Come with me, Mister Potter" he said, walking towards the doorway in the back. "We shall simply have to build you one from scratch."

Oh good. Let's follow the creepy old man into the back room. Grimly resolving to grab the nearest wand and randomly blow things up if even a hint of inappropriate touching occurred, I followed.

Entering Ollivander's workshop felt, almost painfully, like coming home. This was a wizard's workshop – not the colors and noise and flash of Diagon Alley, but the real thing. I inhaled deeply, the scent of wood and sawdust permeating my lungs. Stacks of meticulously labeled components hid the back walls and a cauldron bubbled over a low flame in the corner, emitting the smell of rare and mysterious herbs. A long worktable ran the length of the room, holding wands in various stages of construction, and books and parchment were scattered everywhere. In the far corner was a silver circle embedded in a single flagstone, metal barely visible through the thick coat of dust. The room was lit only by cauldron flame and candles, and the bite of magic – subtle, sharp, and alive, filled the air.

Ollivander dug out a metal bracelet, heavily inscribed with runic symbols and laid it on the table. He motioned towards a mop and bucket against the side wall "Mister Potter, if you would be so kind as to wet down and scrub the circle clean. We shall need it." He turned back to the worktable.

I shrugged, fetched the mop and started mopping, watching as he pulled out several vials from the cabinets under the table, mixing their contents together in a shallow bowl. Every once in awhile he'd wave his wand and mutter over the bowl, and I'd feel a spike of power swirl through the room.

Ollivander took out the last vial, this one filled with a fine, grey powder that sparkled in the dim light, and held the bracelet aloft over the bowl, emptying the vial over it, twisting the bracelet under the steady flow while chanting softly. I could feel power stir again, moving through the room as he covered every inch of the bracelet's rune-covered surface. Once done, he shook the excess off into the bowl, and placed the bracelet to the side. Lastly he took out a large wooden wand, at least two feet long and with a flick of his wrist, set it hovering over the table before turning to face me.

"Ah, Mister Potter, I see you are done. Please be seated in the circle, and take out that" He paused, a bit distastefully "wand of yours."

He crossed over to me as I drew my rod. "If I may?" he asked, gesturing to the blasting rod. I handed it over, a bit reluctantly. He took it and turned it over in his hands, examining it, tracing the sigils I had laboriously carved.

"Over a foot long, Mister Potter, and no core. Plain wood, mass produced yet distinctly magical. Power has channeled through this." It was not a question. "There are several symbols etched into it, but none I have ever seen before. What do they mean?" he asked.

"They don't translate directly" I replied "But I can give you the gist." I began touching symbols, uttering their common meanings as I did. "Focus, binding, channeling, gathering" I said, ticking off symbols. "And these are for the elements - fire, earth, air, water, and spirit." I left others unnamed. Their meanings were personal.

"I'm not honestly sure how wands work" I said "But I can tell you they don't work on the same principles as my blasting rod."

He turned the rod over in his hands. "You made this yourself. Channeled magic through it." He mused, before abruptly handing it back. "An old magic, that, an old talent. I know little enough about it myself, and I suspect I know more than any man living." He eyed me critically. "Besides yourself, Mister Potter. Please sit or kneel in the circle. Make sure nothing crosses the line."

Ollivander turned back to the worktable, picking up the bracelet as I sat. "But I know enough. Old records, old wand-making tales, a few hints in old books – it will do. Any wand that suits you must also accommodate the way you use your...stick". I admit I didn't get his distaste for my blasting rod. It worked, didn't it? We didn't all have workshops packed with high quality woods and hand-crafted tools. Some of us had a beat-up drumstick, some chalk, and a pen-knife.

He brandished the bracelet. "This will link to your core, the magic inside you. There will be a minor sting when it activates." He snapped the bracelet on my wrist. "It will need to be used in conjunction with your…stick. Simple light should suffice."

He looked down at me. "Do not start channeling power until I say. Do not break the circle until I say. Do not _stop _channeling power until I say. It will take several weeks, and a sizable sum of money, to recreate the reagents this exercise requires. There is little call for it, after all, and I do not have enough on hand to do this twice. I will close the circle and tell you when to begin. When I do, simply hold aloft your right hand and make your stick light up."

"It's not a stick" I said, with a bit of a pout. "It's a blasting rod."

"Then make your blasting rod light up, Mister Potter, when I tell you to begin." He replied witheringly. "After that, I will tell you to break the circle. When I do so, simply point your stick at the back wall, arm straight. Your arm and stick will break the plane of the circle" he said, mimicking the necessary movement, and I nodded my understanding.

He retrieved the powder-filled bowl and placed it inside the circle with me. With a quick flick of his wand, he cut open his finger and let fall three drops of blood into the bowl.

He closed the circle by the simple expedient of smearing his bloody finger across it. Somehow, I wasn't surprised – closing a circle only takes an effort of will for me. But these wizards had an entirely different understanding of magic, and blood would work for anyone - no training or even magical talent required. I doubted he could feel the walls of energy that snapped up around me as his blood touched the circle.

After quickly healing his hand - a magic trick that certainly caught my attention, he turned to face me.

"Hold your stick aloft, Mister Potter, and activate it." he instructed, and began chanting.

Recognizing a ritual when I saw one, I reluctantly did as I was told. I wasn't happy about not understanding what I was involved in, but he certainly couldn't summon up anything nasty to eat me with this setup, so I raised my arm, feeling the bracelet sliding across my right wrist. I closed my eyes, gathered what little power resided inside the circle, and whispered "_luna lumenia_". That was the first spell I had crafted myself, and despite being a simple little thing, I was proud of it. It had been an exercise in power calculations – simply to see if it would really work for me. Calling light was so simple it didn't really need incantations or calculations or even a foci, but doing it the 'hard way' had been a necessary proof of concept.

Proof that I could do more than echo someone else's life, that _I_ was more than an echo of someone else's life - that I could make magic of my own.

My rod lit up, tip and sigils glowing, bathing the room in the soft silver-white glow of a full moon. I opened my eyes, and smiled - I had always loved the color of moonlight.

My wrist stung, briefly, and then power surged from inside me, echoing with my heartbeat. The powder in the bowl next to me rose into the air, shining and sparkling, spiraling around my wrist and blasting rod, colors shifting and pulsing, each beat of my heart pushing the energy higher, causing the dust to spiral faster around me.

God, I love magic! Take it from me - stuff like this never gets old.

Ollivander's chant rose to a crescendo, and he shouted "Now, Mister Potter!" and I snapped my arm down, severing the circle that held in the sparkling, glowing dust and pulsating magic, sent it rocketing out into the room in an explosion of silver and white light.

After a moment, I heard a muttered. "Very good, Mister Potter. You may stop."

Blinking, I dropped the spell, and surveyed the results. Several items stacked along the walls were sparkling in the candlelight, coated in slightly glowing powder. The over sized wand had patterns of silver dust spiraling around it, forming glowing runes along it's length.

Ollivander began collecting the boxes that showed traces of powder, and laying them out along the work table as I stood and walked over to watch.

"Elm" he muttered, laying out boxes. "Cedar, most unusual, and aspen as well. Working these together will be a challenge, oh yes."

He moved to the next set of containers. "Feather of a pegasus I encountered in Greece. Hair of nymph – an oread to be precise, from a grotto in Italy." He laid them both aside, opened another box and removing a glowing orange-red scale. "Fire salamander scale, collected by one of my ancestors from the Pacific Ring of Fire." Moving to the last box he said "Mermaid scale, from a colony along the coast of France. And lastly…."

He reached up and tugged free a strand of my hair, coated with silver dust. "Hair of a wizard" he said, placing it with the others. "Most unusual."

Glancing at me he asked. "Tell me, Mister Potter - what do you think these components mean?".

I swallowed, thinking of the pentacle necklace resting on my chest. "The elements of magic. Air, earth, fire and water...and spirit."

"Yes" he said, and then reached over to tap the floating wand. "I recognize some of these, runes used in making wands. But others..." he traced his fingers along the wand, just over the silver signs. "These are unlike any I know, but I see several that currently decorate your blasting rod. I suspect you know the rest as well."

I nodded. I did indeed; several were to be worked into a staff when the time was right. Symbols for the five elements, symbols for containment, for focus, to help gather and direct magic - and a lengthy chain that was far more. Part of making your own focus was to inscribe symbols showing your personal relationship with magic. Binding some of your deepest beliefs, your strongest convictions regarding magic and it's use to your focus.

You don't often see your own soul bared quite so casually. I was suddenly profoundly grateful that Ollivander could not read those symbols, and any doubts I had about the wand working for me evaporated like morning dew.

He turned away, already dismissing me. "Come back in two hours. Your wand will be ready then."

Darn. I guess he didn't want me to stay around and watch it. Which sucked, because I was curious. And, I admit, because I didn't like being dependent on someone else to do magic. Hopefully my new library had some information on wand crafting.

I wandered out of the shop and over to a store that catered in luggage and other travel necessities. Wizarding fashion appeared to tend towards old-fashioned wooden and metal travelling trunks, however the listing of potential features was rather mind-blowing. There were expanded trunks, multiple compartment trunks, trunks with potions labs and workspaces, libraries, wardrobes, even a few with basic living amenities.

After speaking to the proprietor – and popping out for a quick check of the prices for the rest of my school list, I ended up blowing almost eighty percent of my remaining funds for the year on a trunk. It wasn't exactly what I wanted, but "what I wanted" would have bought a large house in a very up-scale neighborhood. I simply couldn't afford it, not even close.

I was quite happy with what I ended up with, however. I'd gone with a low-key, understated appearance - a dark wood and metal steamer trunk with inset wheels, to make dragging it a bit easier. It was a multi-compartment trunk, one I viewed as a cross between a TARDIS and a Transformer.

One compartment was just empty, with a few dividers. One popped up a wardrobe, which supposedly even cleaned my clothes. Another popped up a sizable bookcase, capable of holding a few hundred books. One compartment was dedicated to food - it held the wizarding equivalent of MREs. It was actually part of the proprietor's camping line, and normally found in tents. It had about six months worth of food in it, which would keep fresh for years. I planned to use it to avoid mealtimes with my relatives.

The last two compartments, however, were what blew the budget. Both were deluxe features, one designed for the up-and-coming potions master, the other for the rich student, and both were what earned the 'Transformers' moniker.

The first was "just" ingredient storage. It _unfolded _around the trunk, massive compartmented shelves popping, all easily labeled and re-sizeable, with tons of spells aimed at keeping things safe and sound inside, no matter how the trunk jostled. It solved a very pressing problem, one that had prevented any real exploration of thaumaturgy - my deal with Uncle Vernon probably wouldn't hold if I'd filled my room with shelves full of all the things a working wizard needed - from uranium dust to barbie dolls to booze. Don't laugh, with those I could banish ghosts, talk to spirits, and, well, bribe said spirits. Some of them liked the sauce.

That I could also store my potions ingredients in it, and it came with nifty area designed to store bottled potions, was just a bonus.

The last compartment stored only a desk. Like the potions storage, it unfolded. When I saw it demonstrated, two things flashed through my mind: First, I wanted it. Secondly, as soon as I learned how, I was going to charm it to yell out "Autobots, Transform and roll out!" whenever I activated it.

It unfolded much like the potions storage, a bit like some weird reverse nesting doll or a three-dimensional Escher drawing, just flopping out and around until it created a very large desk with the trunk proper forming the base - complete with a very nice chair. I had enough room to sprawl out papers, reference books, and the usual junk that accumulates on a real desk, and the thing came complete with enough drawers and fittings to hold all the pens, papers, quills, inks, parchments, bills, and possibly small animals I could want.

And despite all the folding up it did when stored, somehow everything stayed exactly where it was without being crushed, spindled, folded, mutilated, or tipped over.

I could have bought a car for what I paid for that thing. A really nice car. And it was worth every single penny. Sadly, it wouldn't shrink, but at least it weighed the same whether it was full or empty. After promising to come back after I got my wand, so I could be keyed into the security system, I rushed out to finish my shopping.

I hit up Malkin's to get my school robes, and then the Apothecary where I went ahead and spent extra for a better potions kit - I planned to brew more than the school assignments - and then a quick rush through the Wizarding equivalent of a craft's store netted me dragon-hide, raw metal in assorted shapes and sizes, and the tools Wizards used to work leather and steel. I had projects of my own, after all, and I was drooling over some of the possibilities.

I finally remembered to go owl my acceptance letter to Hogwarts – making a note to look up why they use an owl-based postal system. It certainly doesn't seem to fit that 'Let's not be noticed' vibe, but given the way magic seems to be used for anything and everything here, they probably just used magic to cover it over.

My last major stop before returning for my wand was the bookstore – Flourish and Blotts. Initially, that went well. I grabbed a bag that never seemed to get full, and proceeded to badger the manager into helping me get not only my book list, but common and useful reference materials and supplementary works, including a large packet of information aimed at the muggleborn. The everybook was great, but sometimes you needed to have four books open at once to try to work something out. I also splurged on an enchanted fountain pen in addition to the required quills, and picked up the required rolls of parchment.

Among my supplementary picks were a handful of books on Wizard customs and etiquette – hey, I was a stranger in a strange land – that seemed rather useful. I also got one entitled _101 Things You're Never Taught About Potions_ which, according to the owner, was the most common purchase of second-year students - which says a lot about whatever idiot they got to teach potions.

The longer I was there, however, the more confused – and deeply worried – I got. It didn't take long for me to realize that, if nothing else, at least half the Laws of Magic simply didn't apply to these people.

In my wandering around today, I'd seen a shopping district full of well-adjusted, happy wizards and witches. This wasn't a country of Dark Wizards, corrupted by black magic. Yet they had common charms that altered the mind. Cheering charms, for god's sake! They taught it to kids, used it on kids. I saw adults casting spells that, from the effects, would have had Wardens chopping heads off left and right. The books were worse - living to living transfiguration, even human transfiguration - on _other people _- was taught in Hogwarts. There were memory modification spells, apparently commonly used to deal with "Oops" moments when non-magicals saw magic - and I lost track of the spells that could be lethal, if used right – explosive spells and cutting hexes, to name some of the obvious ones.

Don't even get me started on the "Unforgiveables" - death, mind control, and torture.

Everything I'd learned from Dresden about magic said that even with the best intentions, transfiguring someone into a chicken or tossing a cheering charm at them should darken and corrupt your soul, and wreck the target's psyche. This place should be full of insane wizards and their hopelessly broken victims.

But it manifestly wasn't.

Worrisome as that was, it all paled next to another, more immediate problem. You see, I had looked up the Dark Wizard that had killed my parents and it turns out _I was bloody famous_.


	5. Intelligence Gathering

_Rather obviously, Harry Potter is the property of JK Rowlings. Death and Dream are the property of Neil Gaiman. Harry Dresden and the Dresden Files belong to Jim Butcher. They'd probably smack me around for the damage I'm doing to their creations. _

Chapter Four:

Intelligence Gathering

I once read a fantasy novel where the local wizard was explaining to his new pupil that he had gone to a school to learn magic, but it had been later – in exile, surviving in the desert for years on his own – that he'd learned to be a wizard.

His pupil, surprised, asked him what magic he'd learned in the desert, and the wizard had responded: "Oh, true wizardry has very little to do with magic."

The root of the word "wizard" comes from the Middle English word _wys_—"wise". A wizard is someone who _knows things._ Take away my magic, and I'll still be a wizard, one of the Wise. Merely knowing spells and casting magic might make you a sorcerer, or a magician – but it takes knowledge to be a wizard.

Go ask any general, and they'll tell you battles are won and lost on intelligence – what you know of the enemy, and what they know of you. Intelligence, investigation, understanding – these are the tools you need to cultivate, because in the end the difference between success and failure boils most often boils down to _what_ you know – or didn't know.

You still need skill, but all the skill in the world does you no good if you don't know when or where to apply it.

I had gone to Diagon Alley in search of knowledge – oh, getting my school supplies was part of it – but what I really needed was information, as much as I could gather before the start of school.

It was just my luck that one of the things I learned was that "Harry Potter" was a household name.

I thanked my lucky stars I'd chosen to wear a hat, because my scar was apparently the most recognizable feature in magical England. The descriptions given were considerably more lurid than the truth – it was just a faded scar, a decade old. All it had going for it was a memorable shape.

The stories swapped told of a more swollen, more impressive scar. I can only imagine that everyone, supposing it was the result of a powerful and lethal curse, felt it should look more _magical_.

Personally, I think I had just been nailed by a chunk of rubble. I don't buy the "100% lethal curse bouncing off my forehead theory" one bit. I couldn't find how the urban legend of my magic forehead had gotten started, but I suppose in the days after Voldemort's demise people just weren't thinking clearly. I tend to think it was something my parents did, which at least has the benefit of being slightly plausible. Perhaps my mother was particularly inventive with her death curse.

It didn't take much digging to find out that people had some serious expectations of me, good and bad. From spoiled prince to Merlin come again, it seemed everyone had an opinion of what Harry Potter was going to be like.

Playing up the clueless muggleborn, I learned that there had been rumors swirling about me for years – ever since I 'disappeared' from the Wizarding world – and they'd been intensifying of late. Everyone 'knew' I was coming to Hogwarts this year.

I sighed, rubbing my face. Everything from where I was Sorted to who I befriended, was going to raise speculations. There was no way I could keep a low profile. I could hope the novelty fled, but at best I was going to be the center of attention, no matter what I did, for quite some time.

I'd have to be really careful using magic Dresden-style, I reflected. There were going to be way too many people watching and wondering how I defeated Voldemort.

I certainly hope they didn't expect me to be able head-butt curses and have them bounce off of me, Superman-style.

I checked my watch – about 15 more minutes before Ollivander was ready and I could head home. I had everything else, I thought, might was well go and check out the pet store.

The Owl Emporium slash pet store was filled with animals of all sorts, but mostly owls. Lots and lots of owls, of every imaginable breed and style, crowding the rafters and staring down on the browsing customers with their creepy, unblinking stares. Don't get me wrong, I like birds. It's just that Wizards seem to feel owls are an endangered species, and thus they're trying to build up huge breeding stockpiles, against the day of the Owlpocalypse. Plus, I spent the entire time paranoid about owl droppings, since they were right overhead.

I looked around the store, noticing several varieties of dogs and cats, possibly magical – krups and kneazels sounded like no mundane breeds I'd ever heard of, and their proportions were a bit off. There was a large terrarium occupied by several snakes, all of whom talked. I chuckled as they complained about their food and argued over who got the best spots to bask in the charmed sunlight.

The best was the three headed one that kept arguing with itself, one of the heads using pig-latin to mock the other two. I almost bought it on general principles, but it didn't seem to like the look of me.

A largish kitten, with a mottled black and white pattern finally caught my eye. She seemed to decide I was her person the second I got within range, jumping off a bookshelf and giving me a choice between "catch" or "be landed on and shredded". I caught, and now that I was the proud pet of a cat, went searching for accessories.

I left a few minutes later, with perhaps the greatest magical invention of all-time – A cat-litter box that truly cleans itself integrated into a cat carrier. I would never have to smell stale cat litter. Score one for magic. The cat was half-kneazle, which apparently just meant "half magical cat", and decided to accept the name Zatanna after yawning its way through several other suggestions.

Ollivander was waiting for me when I returned, a small box and a strangely shaped piece of leather sitting on the counter-top.

"Ah, Mister Potter" he said as I entered. "Your wand is ready. I have taken the liberty of setting aside a proper holster for it." He opened the box. "Eleven inches and fairly rigid, made of elm, aspen and cedar. The cores, Mister Potter, did not wish to cooperate until your hair was added. I suspect it will serve you well. "

"Take it out, and give it a wave, if you would".

I looked at the wand, perhaps a touch thicker than most I had seen. The woods blended smoothly, wrapped in a tight spiral with each other, various sigils etched into the clean lines. Touching it was like sliding my finger into an electrical socket, the inner core of my magic surging forward, eager and ready to be released. I gave it gentle wave and the wand's tip exploded in pure silver sparks that blazed across the room, shimmering and dancing in the air, before slowing fading away.

I traced a finger along the smooth, deeply etched runes twisting along the bands of wood, felt the familiar sense of my own magic coiling inside it. It was truly a work of art.

I held the wand out, gathered my will and whispered "_luna lumenia"_, smiling as moonlight blazed from it, perfectly attuned to my power. I inspected it closely – it was more reactive than my blasting rod, which says a lot.

I was very curious how Ollivander prepared his woods – the core being able to channel power 'off the shelf' I could understand, but the wood? It would have taken me countless hours of ritualistically channeling power to let mundane wood handle magic like that. I turned the wand over in my hands, memorizing its balance and heft, and the feel of my magic singing inside it..

I'd have given a small fortune to learn how he did that. And I could tell from the look on his face that not even a large one would have bought the secret from him.

I understood. Some secrets you just didn't share. As it was, I'd seen how he'd located materials attuned to me, and I planned to work up my own version to help enhance my own foci. I couldn't replicate what he'd done with the wood – not yet, although perhaps soaking in a potion or solution might be a method – but I thought I could work up a thaumaturgical ritual that would help me find resonances that could amply my foci. I thought warmly of the dragon hide I'd purchased – more than enough to form the core of a shield bracelet, with plenty left over to experiment with. I had hopes that I could not only shave weeks off attuning it, but I could pump energy through it more efficiently.

Leather – hide of any sort – was a good base for the band, as it symbolized protection from outside forces. Think about it. Skin, hide – it's there to keep the nasty outside from getting to your delicate insides. It's nature's first line of defense against a hostile world, and perfect for magic geared towards protection.

A dragon's hide – especially against fire – should work even better. I shook off my speculations, and tore my eyes away from the wand and back to the crafter.

Ollivander looked on with great satisfaction as I meticulously examined his work. "Your wand, Mister Potter, is constructed of specific materials that complement your magic. That will be forty galleons, please. For reference, a replacement will cost a minimum of two hundred galleons, so please try not to break it."

After paying up and learning how to use the holster – which had me resolving to spend the hours necessary to make drawing and holstering the wand smooth muscle-memory – I left Ollivander's and headed back to the Dursleys. I had a lot to do before September first.

The remaining weeks at the Dursley's were anticlimactic. I bribed Vernon with 300 pounds, the sure and certain knowledge I'd be gone for 9 months, and promised not to show up at mealtimes, and in return he agreed I had no chores to do before I left. I managed another trip to Diagon Alley about a week after my first, this time to a place called Saint Mungo's, in order to acquire the necessary immunizations and have my general health checked – all recommended by the mundane information packet. Dragon Pox sounded particularly unpleasant.

Other than the lingering remnants of something called a 'baby bind' – apparently to prevent excessive magical outbursts from children – I was in good health, physically and magically. The bind itself was all but gone, and I was informed it'd work itself out over the first weeks of school as I exercised my magic.

I had my eyes checked, as a precaution – my eyes had been fairly bad when I was young, but had started improving as soon as I started having the dreams and practicing magic. Thinking back on it, I couldn't recall Dresden encountering many wizards who wore anything more than reading glasses – and he had suspected at least one set, those belonging to the Merlin, were enchanted.

I managed a trip to London that day as well, carrying along a charmed backpack that was much bigger on the inside, and managed to acquire a bunch of decent normal clothing. No more Dudley hand-me-downs, thank God.

I spent the rest of the month studying hard. I had an entire month, no school, no chores, and nothing to do but explore this strange new world. It wasn't really work, I was learning about _magic_, after all.

I had twelve or more hours a day just to read. I had a branching off point – the mundane-born packets, and I had a wealth of resources – not just reference books, but family journals and diaries detailing Hogwarts, the Wizarding world, and history. I focused on theory and trying to acquire as broad a depth of magical background as I could.

Most of the mundane packet was geared towards people who weren't already aware of the supernatural, things like "Vampires are real" and "Do not touch magical plants unless you know what you are doing, for humans are tasty". Some of it was devoted to Wizarding government, obviously titled towards the older, more powerful families. Money talks, and old money has had lots of time to make its point.

The packet focused a lot on the laws relevant to new wizards and their families, including government sanction of mass memory modification, the Secrets Act, and the fact that I wasn't to use my wand during holidays until I was of age. I didn't try any spells from my schoolbooks, but I did try a few evocations – light and a gust or two of wind, which didn't seem to attract Ministry attention. Whatever they were focused on, using my wand like a blasting rod didn't set it off. Good to know.

I made it a point, when heading out one morning for a run, to explain to Uncle Vernon that the Statute of Secrecy would minimize the chance of anyone noticing anything _unusual _and that I took my legal obligation to 'act normal' in public seriously. I then informed him that whatever ways they monitored underage magic didn't apply to my magic.

Carrot and stick was the way to deal with my loving Uncle. If he'd learned I wasn't allowed to use my wand outside of school, he might have drawn unfortunate conclusions. Or perhaps not – we'd had five years as a semi-normal family. Either way, letting him know the "I will act normal, and you will be nice, and there will be no need to set everything on fire" agreement was still in effect was simply a good idea.

I supplemented the information packets and etiquette books with similar information from the Potter library, including the Head of House journals. My father had apparently been a bit too busy to write much after graduation, what with Voldemort and all, but I got a good sense of my family history.

The Potters tended to produce above average wizards and witches, were generally against the rape and torture of non-magicals (Go Team Sane!), and we absolutely ignored blood politics, which effectively made us blood traitors to the Pureblood faction. We didn't go for arranged marriages – it had been several hundred years since the Potters had last had one, we didn't try to keep our blood 'pure' – in fact, it was a rare Potter that married anyone that fit the 'pureblood' moniker – which was having four grandparents who were magical.

Reading up on Blood politics made me sympathize with dogs. The Potters were happily mutts and mongrels. I mentally drew a line between "Didn't inbreed" and "Above average witches and wizards" and circled that a few times. It seemed relevant.

We had a number of bloodline gifts that popped up on occasion, including one for speaking to snakes – which explained the looks I was getting as I laughed at the snakes in the pet store. I was the only one who had heard them. That gift wasn't one the Potters advertised – it was considered 'Dark' in Britain. I was very grateful I'd merely laughed, and not answered back. There was an entire section on Parselmagic-based – the snake language – warding I resolved to look into later, when I had an actual grounding in some of the basics of Runes, Arthimancy, and a few other subjects that Warding required.

Did I mention Voldemort was a parselmouth? Yeah, that didn't help the 'dark wizard' mythos at all.

One of the absolute best finds in the Journals was a head-of-house primer. Sometime during WWII, the Potters had come within inches of losing everyone in the family save their youngest son – then off at Hogwarts – when a bomb flattened their home. After that, my grandfather had taken care to write in a list of everything a Potter might need if he'd been orphaned early.

It contained a synopsis of the family history, a sort of quick "Who's Who" of Wizards, the lists of families we tended to ally with or have feuds with, some basic etiquette references, important laws and customs, and the critical areas of the Grimoire.

Including one lovely little potion, a Potter family secret, that could be used to generate a complete picture of an individual – magical gifts, any curses or magical illnesses they were suffering, that sort of thing. Brewing it would take almost a year, but I resolved to start as soon as I had enough basic skills to do it.

In addition to all that, I spent a great deal of time studying magical theory. I needed to know how wand magic worked, why it was so different than the magic I knew, and how it managed to sidestep the Laws of Magic as I knew them.

I didn't have much of a choice. I needed to know if I was going to have to refuse to perform entire classes of charms and transfigurations out of 'moral objections' before I was actually called upon to cast them. It would have been close enough to the truth, was semi-rational, and constituted my Plan B.

Studying magical theory, even with the Potter library, was difficult. I had to keep it to the "Dummy's Guide" level, and even then I spent plenty of time looking up references.

But by the time I had packed up to head the Express, I had a working theory.

Magic, the way I did it, was an expression of belief and will. I reached out, with the essence of my being, and manipulated the very stuff of nature. If I compelled someone's will, or altered their form, or killed – the magic I was casting to do it was bound up in my own mind and soul.

To use magic to cheer someone up – to use an innocuous example, I would have to truly believe that imposing my will on someone else was the right thing to do. That I had the right to change who they were and how they thought. That's not a belief I want to cultivate, and with Lawbreaking, little sins become bigger ones. Dresden had seen a few examples of what Warlocks who specialized in compelling the mind became.

Death was better, in my opinion.

Wands, on the other hand, operated magic at a remove. Instead of bending outside energies to your will, you shaped your internal magic and expressed it via the wand, which created patterns in the fabric of the world.

The wand insulated you from the magic you were performing. It was the difference between reaching out with your hands and lifting a rock – and pressing a button that told a robot arm to reach out and pick up the rock.

This did explain why the wand had to be matched to you, and seemed to contain bits of magic innately - it needed to resonate with your core, needed to be magic already, because a properly matched wand would amplify your magic and express it without distortion. A poorly matched one would require you to focus much harder, and use far more power, to achieve the same results.

The process protected you from the damage to a large extent – you didn't have the psychic backlash, because you weren't mentally tangled up in what you were doing. You told magic what to do, not reached out and shaped magic.

How it avoided damaging the subject's psyche I had no idea. But reference after reference showed it didn't cause mental or psychic damage, up to and including my father discussing pranks where his friends had turned him into an animal or slipped him love potions, and he showed absolutely no signs of trauma.

And trust me, it should have been there. Wand magic was _different._ End of story.

I had enough evidence to make me comfortable casting spells, although I still planned to run a few subtle experiments using cheering charms and the Sight.

Wand magic made spell-crafting phenomenally difficult, though. Creating new wand spells was akin to writing a very long computer program, and having to model every single bit by hand. The calculations involved would be immense; you'd have to basically detail every last tiny aspect of the spell mathematically, whereas to cast 'Dresden-style' I merely had to visualize the end result. Once successful, though, you could tie it to an incantation and the very act of performing the spell would imprint it on the fabric of magic, the way running water would eventually leave a path in stone.

New wand spells would be difficult to perform for anyone but their creator, but the more he or she used it – or the more people he or she personally taught – the easier it would be for people to learn it simply from rote wand movements and incantation. By all accounts there was still a solid visualization aspect to magic, but nothing like what I required to do the simplest of spells.

Wandless magic, of the wanded sort – which was a bit of an odd statement, really – could be done by people who had learned to recognize the energy patterns called forth by the mnemonic gestures and incantations, and express them without needing the wand. It'd lack an easy outlet, and the amplifier of the wand, but it was doable with enough focus, power, and will. I suspected casting silently was far more common, and that experienced magic users started to minimize or remove the wand gestures as the spells became second nature.

I'd have to look into emotion-based wanded magic, if any existed – spells that required an emotional input probably weren't nearly as buffered, and would involve the same sort of emotional and spiritual investment as my magic did. In which case, running afoul of the Laws of Magic would cause the same sort of psychic damage to both targets, although to a lesser degree.

I got a few other things accomplished besides mulling over the nature of magic. The wrist holster was an interesting device, utilizing yet more of that 'expanded space' stuff – I _had_ to learn how that was done.

My draw wasn't quite as smooth as with my blasting rod, but it was getting there. At least I had finally stopped fumbling it. The holster took a specific wrist twitch to send the wand to my hand, and another one to return it. I spent hours practicing that, as well as the dozen or so basic wand movements outlined in one of the charms books.

I had considered doing some potions brewing – Pepper-Up potion, for one, looked useful, but given the complexities and dangers I read about, I satisfied myself with studying up on the proper ways to prepare basic ingredients and trying to memorize the reaction tables, trying to at least memorize the explosive, poisonous, or acidic combinations. They seemed like things to avoid.

I studied the Hogwarts student handbook, as well as the safety guides that came with it – the one for the Potions lab was particularly lengthy, and included everything from basic lab safety to proper methods of cleaning your cauldron to avoid cross-contamination. There were some particularly gory examples of screw-up's from recent years in the Potions safety guide, but it claimed there had been no permanent potions-related injuries since the 30s.

I skimmed my father's journal and my mother's diary, getting a feel for the sorts of people they were. I tended to agree with my mother that my Dad took awhile to grow up, and that he and his friends probably weren't as funny as they thought they were.

Magic can make for some cruel pranks.

I kept up with my morning runs – dreaming Dresden's trouble-filled life meant I knew the value of running away from trouble – and spent my copious spare time reading about the war that claimed my parents.

All in all, the month between my first trip to Diagon Alley and the departure of the Hogwarts Express practically flew by. I had been putting in 16 hour days researching, had filled up pages upon pages in my journal with notes and speculations, and was ready to worship whatever blessed ancestor of mine had set up those linking books. It seemed like only a few days had passed before I found myself trudging through King's Cross station, wheeling my trunk towards Platform 9 3/4.


	6. A Sorting Tale

_Rather obviously, Harry Potter is the property of JK Rowlings. Death and Dream are the property of Neil Gaiman. Harry Dresden and the Dresden Files belong to Jim Butcher. They'd probably smack me around for the damage I'm doing to their creations. _

Chapter 5: A Sorting Tale

If there was any one, universal truth in life it is that no man is an island. Humans are social creatures – we need friends, companions - people to talk to and to listen to, people we can care about and who care for us. People you can trust.

I was eleven and off to school, free from the shadow of my relatives, and I finally had a chance to meet people who were like me - magical.

I had some friends in school, for a certain casual definition of friend. I'd laugh at fart jokes, hang out with them on the playground, but it wasn't like I could tell them "I have phenomenal cosmic power, and can set things on fire with my mind." Being labeled "The crazy kid who thinks he can do magic" doesn't really aid in social development. And in the end, that sort of secret makes it hard to make real friends – magic was too much a part of who I was to deny.

But Hogwarts – it was a school for magic. Maybe they didn't do my sort of magic exactly, but style didn't matter – just that it was magic. And Hogwarts was pretty much _the_ school for magic in England. There were a few smaller specialty schools, but for the most part – the people I met at Hogwarts were going to be the people I was going to know my whole life, at least on the magical side.

That's boarding school for you, especially when the 'school' is practically the entirety of your country.

There were some things I wasn't looking forward to over the next seven years, of course. Having an older, internal life is hell at times - take dating, for example. I had more than enough of Dresden's memories to know how awkward that was going to get. I knew I was two, three years max away from a multi-year phase of awkward drama and teen-aged angst that I was not looking forward to it _at all_. And even if I remained sane, everyone else was going to become crazy and obsessed versions of themselves. It's enough to make a man drink.

About the only silver lining was that while I had experienced Dresden's dating life, it lacked the remarkable clarity of the rest of his life. I'd worried a lot, over the years, about how this was going to affect my development, but so far I seemed to be doing okay. I wasn't lusting after other kid's moms, nor did I feel like an adult hanging out with little kids.

Sure, my peers felt immature, but somehow I didn't feel like I should be hanging out with twenty-somethings in bars. However I'd come to experience Dresden's life, there was a merciful blurring of some aspects of it.

Intellectually, it was all there. I could remember what a kiss felt like – and other things, but it was closer to something remembered from a movie or story. The feel of magic, of a gunshot wound – those I remembered as if they'd happened to me personally. Unfortunately, however distant his romantic life might have felt, some of Dresden's tendencies seemed to have lingered.

He was an incurable romantic, for one, with a weakness for the underdog – fitting, given how often he was the underdog - and that had rubbed off on me. Show me a popular kid and an outcast, and I'd go sit with the latter. Odds are he's more interesting anyways, with a better sense of humor.

A five hour train ride was a long way to go with just a book for company, which I expect was the reason the more social aspects of life were on my mind as I left Privet Drive. Vernon was only too happy to take me, already gleeful at the thought of nine Harry-free months. I couldn't really complain, as I was pretty thrilled with the arrangement myself.

Vernon dropped me off at Kings Cross station, driving off with indecent haste as soon as I had my feet on the ground and my luggage out of the trunk. I grabbed my trunk, checked to make sure Zatanna's carrier was firmly attached, and moved off towards platforms 9 and 10.

Even without the information in the introductory packet, I think I would have noticed the entrance. I wouldn't have known what it _was,_ but I felt the pressure of magic from two platforms back. It increased steadily as I got closer, and by the time I was at the platform proper the strength of the wards would have woken the dead.

I took a few minutes to psyche myself up before heading into the barrier at a good clip, already wincing at the inevitable feel of face meeting brick wall. While I wasn't treated to the fun of a broken nose, I did get a brief, gut-wrenching feeling of dislocation that left me trying not to vomit as I stumbled out the other side.

That wasn't at all like the archway into Diagon Alley, I thought woozily. It felt more like a bad trip into the Nevernever. Gods, I hope that wasn't representative of Wizarding travel. If so, I'll stick to the bus.

I shook off the disorientation and took a moment to admire the giant scarlet steam engine before glancing around the cavernous platform. There were a few clusters of robed adults, some children dragging trunks, a giant fireplace, glowing with green flames, that spit out someone as I watched, and a number of teenagers running around and being, well, teenagers. Rounding it all out, I saw a few obviously culture shocked mundanes and their kids, staring around in the same wonder that no doubt marked my face. Did I mention the guy came out of the fireplace? While it was lit? Yeah, apparently that was _also_ a form of Wizarding travel. I didn't think anything could make the Ways look like a normal mode of travel, but braving the Nevernever beat magical fireplace travel hands down. You don't have to step into a fire, for one.

I'd gotten a subscription to the local paper, which was a sensationalist rag on its best days, and the last few weeks had been fervent Potter speculation. You don't even want to know what I saw on the cover of some of the other Wizarding periodicals. Even with the hat jammed down on my head to cover my faded scar, I didn't feel like tempting would be Potter-fans, so I decided to get on board and find a nice compartment to hide out in.

About midway down the train I spotted a bushy brunette about my age reading a monstrous tome. In the "big sense" and not in the "About to eat your face off" sense, although I'd learned enough about Wizards here to suspect such books probably did exist. With my luck, it'd be one of my textbooks next year.

She was deliberately not looking at me as I hovered outside the door, but her body language was a mix of "Please don't be mean to me" and "Please ask me about my book!" You know, desperate to meet someone, afraid that someone would be the wrong sort? Mundane born, judging by her clothes – I'd seen Wizards in muggle drag and it was _not_ a pretty sight. Apparently they believed mundanes were color blind, just for starters.

If I had to make a guess, I'd say she was the lonely, bookish type. Smart, but generally picked on for being bright, and as socially maladapted as myself. The sort of kid that trusted books more than people, because people tended to be cruel and books were a refuge. She was probably hoping to find a friend just as much as I was, and I bet hoping that what had separated her from all the other kids could be explained by her magic.

I'd been there, done that, gotten the t-shirt. The quiet kid reading in the corner, the one picked last for games because something about you is just a little off, the one that was a little too smart, a little too mature, just didn't fit in. And never would. I suppose the fact that I won't look anyone in the eyes probably didn't help me to fit in. Or my twenty-something magical inner child.

She tingled my Dresden-senses, those damnable 'chivalry is not dead' instincts, which were saying she was the kind of person that could use a friend. Or at the very least, someone who was willing to give it an honest shot. I debated for a moment or three.

Carpe Diem, I thought, and dragged my trunk in. "Hi, I'm Harry. Mind if I sit here?" I asked, without actually pausing. I tossed Zatanna's cage to the seat, eliciting a yowl of protest, before heaving my trunk into the rack.

"So" I said "I'm a first year, raised non-magically. Reading 'Hogwarts, a History', huh? I tried that, but found it way too dry. Also, I couldn't stop laughing at some of the names. When it comes to names, Wizards seem to be a few crayons short of a full box. And really fond of alliteration. That book is not nearly as bad as our assigned history text in terms of mind-numbing boredom, though." I flopped into the seat across from her and grinned cheerfully at her flummoxed expression.

'Causing abject confusion' is as close to 'personal charm' I as I'm ever likely to get.

She seemed taken aback by my blitzkrieg social assault on her empty compartment, and stuttered out "Um…hi? I'm Hermione. And neither of my parents are magical either. And I guess you can sit here. I mean, no one else is sitting there. And I'm finding this book fascinating, thank you."

"To each his own" I replied cheerfully, opening the cat carrier. "This is Zatanna" I said, pulling out my cat, who promptly stuck a claw in me. "Ouch! Stop that or I'll have you spayed" I told her. Zatanna stuck another claw in, just for good measure. I glared at her and told her "I knew I should have gotten a dog."

Zatanna jumped off me, landing in Hermione's lap. She stared at the cat, who stared back at her in lordly disdain. "You named your cat…Zatanna. After the comic book character?" she asked incredulously.

"Nope" I replied. "I merely suggested it. She picked it. I did veto the fishnets and top hat."

She opened and closed her mouth a few times, and then just giggled. "It wouldn't look right with her fur. I agree."

"True" I said." It'd stick out all weird. We'd have to shave her first."

Zatanna, her scrutiny of Hermione complete, decided to ignore us both, jumping into the luggage rack and curling up for a nap. "Apparently Zatanna has judged you unobjectionable" I said. "Although it's kind of hard to tell with cats. She may just be waiting for the proper time to strike."

"Okay" Hermione said dubiously, before changing the subject. "So what House do you think you'll be in? Obviously, I'm hoping Gryffindor because it's the best, but Ravenclaw wouldn't be that bad."

"Why is Gryffindor obviously the best?" I asked, confused.

"Well, obviously because that's the House Dumbledore was in!" she huffed.

Ah, abject authority worship – I racked up another point in the 'teased for being smart' category. And probably a bit bossy, I mused. They tend to go together with the way too smart kids. I mentally shrugged. Exposure to me would grind that off, if she hung around long enough.

"I don't think that's a valid way of looking at it." I said, mentally grinning. "First and foremost, laying aside whether Dumbledore is someone to model yourself after, what's a good fit for one person isn't for another. You're not Dumbledore. And if you wanted to be the next Dumbledore, wouldn't that be ambitious? A prized _Slytherin_ tendency?" I asked, eyebrow arched.

She paused, a little surprised I was arguing back, but quickly rallied. "How can you see bravery and honor aren't the best things to aspire to?"

"I'm not. I'm saying you should be Sorted by who you are – not by some notion of who you think you should be! Besides, I don't really like the whole idea of pigeonholing people at eleven anyways." I stopped, thinking a moment. "But to answer your question, I would imagine I am probably best suited for Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff."

"I suppose you have a point, about being who you are. But surely you can want to be more, right? To improve yourself?" she said, looking a bit put out. "And why those two Houses?"

"Certainly. Aspire to be the best person you can be! That's what the Houses are for, supposedly." I said. "Back to the point, why do you want to be in Gryffindor? Do you seek to be brave? Honorable? Or do you already see yourself as brave and honorable?"

I leaned back and continued "As to my houses – let us say that I tend to view wizardry and knowledge as related. I don't see how I could truly call myself a wizard without knowing as much as I could about everything." I tapped my chin, thinking for a second. "Gandalf, now there's a wizard for you. How many spells did he cast in _Lord of the Rings_? Practically none - he was a wizard because of what he knew and how he thought, not because he could cast spells."

"As for Hufflepuff" I said "anything worth having requires hard work. I'm no stranger to it, and I'd like to think I have the right attitude to buckle down and get the job done."

"As for the other two - I just don't fit the Slytherin tendencies – I'd like to think I can be cunning when I need to, but it's far more likely I'd just run headlong into a problem, in true Gryffindor fashion." I snorted, thinking of how poorly that worked for Dresden. And how despite knowing how badly it worked, I doubted I would have acted differently. "And while I'd like to think I've got the tendencies to be Gryffindor, as my parents were, they're simply not as central to me I am as my drive to learn."

She frowned "Your parents were Gryffindor? I thought you said you were raised non-magically?"

Oops. Oh well, it was going to come out eventually. "I was. My parents died when I was young. Depending on how much research you did on wizarding history" my eyes flicked to the heavy book next to her. I was betting a lot "you might have come across my name. I'm Harry Potter."

The sudden gasp and the cry of "Oh my god! You're Harry Potter! You defeated You-Know-Who!" was all the information my keenly trained investigatory senses needed to come to the conclusion she had, in fact, heard of me. Personally, I refused to deal with the whole You-Know-Who business. It was ridiculous. I'm sure there was a reason for it, somewhere, but couldn't they have come up with something better than 'You-Know-Who'?

I interrupted her as she started to rattle off the books I was in. "Hermione. Hermione! Look" I said "I know I'm in those books. But what I keep wondering is – there were only four people there that night. Me, my parents, and Voldemort - and I was an infant. So why do these people insist I somehow defeated him. It was probably something my parents did. As far as I'm concerned, they defeated Voldemort and saved me, end of story."

She sort of shook herself. "But the books said…."

"Books are written by people." I said, cutting her off. "Don't get me wrong. I love books. I've got tons.. But just in the last week or so I've read three totally contradictory beliefs on magical theory, by three very serious and learned authors." I leaned forward, trying to stress my point. "Books are written by people - people with their own flaws and agendas, with gaps in their own knowledge. Don't treat books as gospel. Treat authorities – books or teachers or anyone – as experts, people who might know more than you but aren't infallible."

"Especially" I sighed "Not infallible. People are flawed creations. No one is perfect, no one is right all the time, no one has absolute knowledge. Please don't put them on a pedestal. Not people, not books."

She sighed, looking down at her shoes. "I try not to. But it's hard." There was a moment of silence, and then she giggled. "I've even read books that say I shouldn't!"

I couldn't help it and just burst out laughing. I took a few minutes to compose myself, before continuing. "So back to my question – do you see yourself as honorable and brave? Or is it something you want to be?"

She looked down, twisting a lock of her hair around her fingers as she thought. "More aspire, I guess." She sighed. "I want to re-invent myself. This is a chance to start over. Be someone else. And I'm tired of being the quiet bookworm, the brain, being made fun of until suddenly it's 'Oh, god, you have to help me with my homework, you're so smart!' I hate it."

She looked at me, hopefully. "Do you know what I mean?"

"Yeah, I do. But I don't think denying who you are is the best way to go about it. If you love learning, admit it!" I grinned. "Be the brave bookworm! Be the one who doesn't take crap from anybody, and who reads _Hogwarts, a History_ and dares anyone to tell her not to!"

I leaned back in my seat, stretching my feet out. "Look, anyone who wants to be friends to a made-up Hermione, or one hiding part of herself, can't be a real friend – they don't know you. Be yourself." I advised.

"If nothing else" I continued "I do my own homework, and I think smart girls are the best." I grinned. "They're the only ones who've read the books I like, and can hold up their end of a conversation."

She laughed. "I don't suppose you'd like to talk about those books on magical theory?" she asked, smiling.

"I'd love to" I responded.

I quickly discovered that, once you got past her habit of regurgitating books verbatim, Hermione Granger was rather smart. Smart enough to keep up with me, and I had a ten-year or so head start on her. It's a good thing I don't have self-esteem issues, because once Hermione had a few years to grow, she was going to be outclassing me - at least on the theoretical end.

We talked quietly as we waited for the train to depart. A few kids passed by and glanced in, but only one -another first year named Neville Longbottom, entered. We convinced him to sit with us - I'd seen the name Longbottom in my family journals, and was eager to find a connection to my past. Turns out he has a bit of a green thumb, so we happily talked about magical plants. Zatanna took a liking to him, curling up comfortably on his lap and allowing herself to be stroked.

We talked for awhile – mostly Hermione and I asking questions about his greenhouse and the plants inside it, as the train pulled out of the station and began the trip to Hogwarts.

He was rather avidly talking about a magical offshoot of aloe when he realized his familiar was missing and started to panic. We helped him search the compartment, to no avail, so I suggested he get a prefect to find it magically.

I admit, wizards here seemed to use magic for way too much, but everyone knew magic was the best way to find lost items. I suppose I might be a bit biased; given it was Dresden's stock and trade. In fact, I might have been able to find Trevor myself with a bit of thaumaturgy, but I didn't know any wand spells to do it and wasn't planning on telling the world I could do strange and different forms of magic.

A blonde, with all the sneering attitude of a trust fund baby came by looking for me while Neville was out looking for a prefect. Blondie announced that he was looking for Harry Potter, sneeringly stated that Potter would never be caught with a pair of mudbloods, and then he and his thugs flounced off. I guess I could have mentioned my name, but it was simply too funny not to.

I admit, his logic seemed a bit suspect. The Potters had never been fans of blood purity. Why he thought a Potter wouldn't be hanging out with muggleborns was beyond me - everything I'd read about my family says we hung out with who we darn well pleased. I did recognize Blondie's name from my everybook – his family was practically the poster child for blood purism.

According to a scribbled note in what looked like my mother's hand, the Malfoy's were also a warning against having a family tree with no branches.

I told Hermione that being accused of not being inbred enough for Malfoy's tastes simply wasn't the insult he thought it was. She was still giggling when Neville returned. I liked to see her laugh. I got the impression she didn't get to be involved in many shared jokes.

Neville's first words were "Wait, Draco didn't recognize you were Harry Potter? I hope I can see his face when he realizes his mistake."

"How did you guess?" I asked, a bit surprised. Neville seemed solid, but he didn't strike me as that observant. Just your typical kid, a bit shyer than most.

"Well, I mean…you said your name was Harry, for one." He said, shrugging. "There's not that many first years, and my parents went to school with yours, so I've seen pictures of them. You look a lot like your Dad did when he was your age. You didn't seem to want a big fuss, so I kept quiet."

"I appreciate that, Neville" I said. "I didn't know I was famous until a month ago."

That generated a bit of shock, as he was under the impression I'd been raised by a magical family. I told him I had found my parent's diaries – I sort of glossed over the specifics – and had read up on some of my family history.

When I mentioned the etiquette books, his face scrunched up in distaste. "My Gran is big on that. I'm not very strong magically – they were worried I wouldn't get into Hogwarts, she was so relieved when my letter arrived" he confided. "But I've known the proper way to address practically anyone, at any sort of event, since I was about six."

He offered to send me some of those photos, if he could get his grandmother to arrange it, and the conversation shifted to other topics, although I did have to promise to loan Hermione one of the better etiquette books.

By the time the train had arrived, we'd struck up an impromptu friendship. The only real moment of tension came when we were discussing House Elves. Hermione did _not_ take kindly to the notion, and it took almost shouting at her to get her to shut up long enough to explain that whatever she may think about slavery, House Elves were closer to the brownies of fairy tales – caring for a household in return for a form magical sustenance.

I think Neville, despite all his very obvious dislike of confrontation, telling her flat out that she couldn't go around just calling his way of life wrong without any experience or education on the subject was what really got through to her. That seemed to bring her up short, and had her genuinely apologizing. Seeing Neville shout was like being mauled by a nun - it was more _who_ was doing it than _why_ they were doing it that demanded your attention.

While he was off in the bathroom, I quietly explained to her that yes, the wizarding world was a good century or more behind ours in some ways. But that with magic, some things were simply different, and that had to be taken into account. The mundane way might be better, it might be worse, but she had to investigate first, and make a judgment second. Neville really seemed hard to offend, I pointed out, and she'd managed it pretty quickly, and did she really want to go around ticking off most of the Hogwarts population on accident?

The thought that she had come so close to totally alienating someone who was so determinedly nice seemed to get through to her more than anything else. Neville was friendly and laid back. Some of that was a real lack of self-confidence – you tend to deflect fights and arguments when you're not all that confident in yourself, but even accounting for that – riling someone as self-effacing Neville up took some serious work.

Not that I disagree with her that there should be some serious changes regarding House Elves, especially after a few horror stories from Neville about how some of the darker families treated theirs. No self-respecting brownie would take that. No one who had ever met a brownie would try. They can be _nasty_ little things, with surprisingly vicious magic. You did not mess with the fae, even the small ones, for they are nasty and hold grudges.

The train finally arrived and we piled off, lining up on the platform. At the base of the road leading towards Hogwarts were a row of carriages pulled by really creepy, skeletal looking horses that gave me a serious wiggins just looking at them. They looked exactly like the sort of horse Death would ride, all gaunt, practically skeletal limbs, yellow eyes, and thick, black hide.

I was about to ask Neville about them when a giant of a man – eight feet tall, at least – started calling for the first years to follow him. As the older students got into the carriages, he took a quick head count then led us down a long flight of stone steps to the shores of the lake. I saw Draco and a pair of minions start working their way along the group once we hit the shoreline, probably still looking for me. I grinned. I hadn't even had to do anything and already I'd annoyed a bigot.

Start as you mean to go on, that's my motto.

The arrival of a small fleet of boats saved me from discovery by the bleached wonder. Hagrid – the giant fellow with the lantern - waited until we had loaded into the boats. They seated four to a boat, and we were joined by a red head by the name of Ron Weasley. He jumped when I introduced myself as Harry, eyes flickering to my cap.

I bit back a groan. It was going to be a long couple of months until the novelty wore off.

Hagrid climbed into a boat of his own and shouted "Forward!" causing the boats to propel themselves across the cold lake. We rounded a bluff and got a good look at Hogwarts Castle for the first time. It towered up against the sky, all proud battlements and sprawling stone, alive with light and pulsating magic. It made a pretty cool school, I'll give it that, much better than tile and cinderblocks of public school architecture.

Still, I wasn't one to let a moment go to waste. I sniffed and said "Tis a silly place" and was rewarded with Hermione's nearly silent giggles, and the almost inaudible response of "It's only a model." That cemented it. She knew Monty Python, and was thus worthy of my friendship. Once I sanded off her respect for authority and broken her habit of obeying unimportant rules, she'd be set.

The baffled looks from Ron and Neville over the exchange got me to chuckling again. Wizards might have magic, but they apparently didn't have TV.

I could feel the wards as we passed underneath them, even with my magic sensitivity dialed all the way down. The strength of them threatened to vibrate my teeth loose. The magic that seethed in them was alive and breathing in a way the wards on Platform 9 3/4s and the Leaky Cauldron weren't. In fact, they were a lot closer to the wards I knew from Dresden's life, with the pulsating feel of living magic rather than the coldly mechanical feel I'd come to associate with the end product of wand magic.

Hogwarts had to be a conjunction of ley lines to power this sort of ward, I thought, so far out from the Castle and its threshold. I tossed out a thin sliver of my magic, seeking to get a feel for the wards.

I felt warm acceptance, of wards so ancient they were almost sentient, welcoming new students into their protection. As we drifted deeper, I frowned as I began feeling weak spots, gaps in otherwise perfectly aligned sheets of energy. Someone hadn't been doing their maintenance, I thought, withdrawing my probe as the boats drifted towards a dark cave in the cliffs beneath Hogwarts.

I opened my mouth to ask Hermione what her book said about the wards, and ate a face-full of moss, which earned me another set of giggles as I pouted. The boats sailed into a small grotto under the cliff, coasting to a stop at a small pier. I was still wiping my face and hoping I didn't have green streaks all over my face when the giant – well, half-giant according to Neville – ushered us out of the boats and up the stone stairs to a large anteroom.

"The first years, Professor" he rumbled to the elderly witch awaiting us. She definitely had down the stern schoolmistress thing, I decided. Black witch's hat, severe bun, glasses perfect for peering over as you squirmed and wondered what exactly she'd found out about.

The room had several suits of armor and even a tapestry – once again, a step up from public school - and I was engrossed enough in the decor I didn't notice her leave. It was a pretty cool tapestry - dragons actually flew across it, twisting and turning in midair, and shooting out flames. I turned to the armor, I was pretty sure I'd seen something in one of my books about the armor being enchanted as part of the school's defenses, and was just about to comment on it to Hermione when I was interrupted.

"You must be Harry Potter."

I turned, ignoring the startled looks from the kids around me. Apparently not that many of them had worked it out.

It was blondie. Fan-freaking-tastic. Couldn't he have at least had the decency to wait until I had eaten? It was going to be blood purity this, my family that. My dad had complained bitterly in his diary – I mean "manly journal" – that the scions of the old families tended to try to start politicking the day they arrived, but I had been hoping that was an exaggeration. I mean, for Merlin's sake, we're eleven. Surely the backstabbing can wait until third year.

"And you must be here to make me an offer I can't refuse." I replied, in the same lofty, superior tones. Hey, I knew this wasn't going to go well.

He looked confused. Oh, right, no TV. He rallied quickly. "My name is Draco Malfoy. I can help you; introduce you to the right sorts." He said, looked around and sniffing in the direction of Hermione and Neville. "You don't need to be hanging around mudbloods and squibs" he sneered.

The last was obviously directed at Longbottom, whose stiffened then slumped at the word, staring at his feet.

I stepped forward, crowding into Malfoy's personal space, and clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Draco, you said? Lovely to meet you. I've heard a lot about you and your dad. Now, I appreciate the offer, really I do."

"Just a few problems. See, first I'm feeling a bit insulted." I shook my head, sadly. "It's a shame, but you've started off by insulting my judgment, telling me I'm not smart enough to make my own social decisions."

"Not the best first impression. Secondly, you just insulted half the room, implying they're not good enough for me to hang out with, which means you're making yourself out to be kind of a jerk." I sighed. "I just got here. I don't need half the school thinking I'm a jerk too."

"But you know, we really could work through all that, with time and a bit of effort. And I'd be willing to, honestly I would" I said, turning to face him, watching that smug smile start to return and grinning inside. God I loathe bigots, I thought, as I dropped the hammer.

"Except your Daddy sort of tried to kill my Dad a few times, and the guy your dad served sort of killed my parents, and to be honest I just can't get excited about inbreeding." I said, smiling savagely. "So tell you what, Draco. You and I just aren't going to see eye to eye. So tell you what. I don't bug you, you don't call my friends names, and we'll just agree to disagree. Deal?"

Suffice it to say, he didn't take the deal.

Instead, he went straight to his big guns - "When my father hears about this!" - it was the start of a beautiful rant. He suffered a bit due to repetition, and threatening to sic his dad on me was a bit lame even for kids, but still the sheer blue-blooded rage and entitlement on display was very impressive and I had just mentally awarded him a 7 out of 10 for it when he was upstaged by the ghosts. As they passed through people, arguing amongst themselves and generally causing chills and little screams of surprise, I took the chance to put a few people between me and him, just in case inbreeding was catching.

The ghosts were pretty impressive. Dresden had seen ghosts before, of course – they were quasi-stable loops of personality imprinted on magic. These were much livelier, much more _alive _than the usual. Probably from being practitioners themselves, those who used magic tended to leave powerful ghosts behind, and because Hogwarts had energy to spare for them to leech off of.

I was sort of surprised they took notice of us. Ghosts generally don't, for all sorts of reasons. These seemed a bit different. I resolved not to try exorcising one, unless it was very annoying.

The floated through, holding a conversation on Houses – I guess a last minute effort to get some new recruits, and were certainly an effective distraction from Malfoy's amateur schmoozing. I resolved to send him _How to Win Friends and Influence People_ – suitably marked up – as an anonymous Christmas gift.

We were just getting to meet the Castle's poltergeist, which I had resolved to exorcise as soon as I figured out what it was and how to get rid of it, when the door opened and the stern witch reappeared. She got rid of the poltergeist with commendable speed, and started drying off the people who had been hit with water balloons.

Stupid poltergeist, I thought, as I got dried off.

Hermione whispered to me that she was Professor McGonagall, the Deputy Headmistress Transfiguration professor, and Head of Gryffindor House. Apparently she had delivered Hermione's letter, and done the orientation for Muggleborns. I'm still a little ticked that I hadn't been invited to that.

McGonagall gave a short speech about the four Houses, managing to be fairly non-partisan for a head of house, and led us into the Great Hall proper. It was a huge place, with four large tables holding a few hundred students. A fifth table, sitting perpendicular atop a dais, was at the far end, filled with adults – teachers, I guessed – including a Gandalf wannabe sitting in the center.

If Gandalf had been color-blind – he was wearing the most lurid purple robes, covered in red stars. But other than that, he had the look down. Pointed hat, giant, reality-defying beard, glasses, twinkling eyes, the man had it all. I distrusted him on general principles. No one is that much of a cliche on accident.

Behind the teacher's tables were four hourglasses, filled with brilliant stones. They were counters for the House points system, if I remembered my mother's words diary correctly. The whole point system seemed a bit, well, pointless if you ask me. Especially since they added sports scores in, and the prize was decorating the place in your House colors at the Leaving Feast.

As we walked in Hermione began muttering spells under her breath, obviously worried there'd be a pop quiz. She paused briefly to inform me the magic ceiling was, in fact, magical. I was too amazed with the starry sky spreading above us to give that the eye roll it deserved. A distant part of my mind noted it looked like it might rain.

McGonagall placed a ratty old pointed hat onto a stool. The hat then proceeded to open its….mouth…and began to sing about school spirit and its job, which was to divide the new students up into four gangs which would then be pitted at each other's throats, all for the amusement of the staff.

Well, that was the _gist_ of its song. I extrapolated the bit about the fighting gangs from my experience with school children. Group people into two different groups, and they will start right up with explaining why their group is superior to those wretched fools in the _other_ group. Even if the groups were names picked from a hat.

Or by a hat, I guess. Although if the staff didn't take bets on practically everything at the beginning of the school year, I'd eat the singing hat.

I'd known about the Sorting Hat, although nothing really prepares you for the surreal nature of being sung to by a dirty hat, but it appeared the whole process was a surprise to most of the other first years. Ron Weasley's brothers had apparently convinced him he was going to have to wrestle a troll, poor kid. I'd learned about the Hat from my ancestors and their meticulously organized and referenced notes, which including several lengthy parodies my father and friends had concocted using the Hat's song as a base. Although I felt a bit scarred after reading the one authored by 'Padfoot', which had sorted the women of Hogwarts into four categories divided by – supposed—sexual interests and enthusiasm.

Although a deep, very Dresden-y part of me had bumped Hufflepuff up the list after reading it. Just in case.

I watched the first students go up as their names were called. As the first, a rather cute girl named Hannah Abbot, went to Hufflepuff I had to admit I was more than a bit worried about letting something inside my head.

Mind Magic was _bad_. I'd done only the barest research on wand-based mind magic – I hadn't twigged that there was a mind-reading Hat involved in this until just a few nights ago, but apparently _Thou Shalt Not Invade the Mind _was more a guideline to the guys with wands. I had no doubt there were wizarding methods of shielding your mind, but I'd had no chance to even find them, much less practice them, so I'd have to rely on White Council doctrine to protect myself.

And given the White Council's view on mind-reading was to chop the heads off anyone it caught reading minds, well – it's not like you got much experience resisting intrusion. It was pretty much all theory, except for a few times Dresden had had to toss off things like a glamour, which were at least a type of mental magic. So _untested_ White Council doctrine. Yay.

I idly applauded as Hermione went skipping off to Ravenclaw table almost instantly, sitting down with a group that included at least three people reading books rather than paying attention to the Sorting. She'd fit right in, I thought, although I'll have to make sure to drag her out of her books regularly.

Neville stayed under the Hat for awhile, before finally heading over to Hufflepuff. I applauded, ignoring the sneer from Blondie. I suspect Hufflepuff would be good for him, at least once his Grandmother got over her snit. He already radiated a sort of solid dependability that, to my mind, was worth far more than courage or daring.

Draco went off to Slytherin so quickly I wondered if the Hat had even bothered searching his mind – it wasn't like his ambition was all that well hidden, although cunning seemed a closed book to him.

Sally-Anne Perks darted off to her house – and finally my name was called, and the Great Hall fell into silence.

I had removed my baseball hat once everyone was focused on the Great Hall – I'd left it on despite hints from Hermione, a curious look by Hagrid, and an outright sniff of disapproval from McGonagall. As soon as I started walking I felt the stares and whispers start, and the urge to shout something ridiculous was hard to repress as I walked up to the Hat.

McGonagall placed it on my head as I visualized the first line of Council mental defenses, a grey stone wall around my mind. I wanted a conversation, not a magical artifact trolling through my id.

I heard a chuckle in my thoughts.

_Crap. You're already in, aren't you? _I thought.

I got a mild feeling of approval. _Oh yes. Fascinating mind you've got, Harry. Especially this_ I felt a weird prodding. _That's someone else's memories. How interesting. _

_Hey! Get out of there. That's private!_

_Oh, I'm not looking exactly. It's hard to explain. _I felt the Hat thinking._ Imagine your mind is a city. It's hard NOT to notice the giant monolith towering over it, causing all the people to scream and run in panic. _ There was a pause. _Metaphorically_ it added.

_I'm not looking inside it, but I can't help but see it into your 'urban landscape'. _That Hat continued.

_Oh._ I thought. _That's only deeply disturbing, instead of horrifically disturbing. _

_Don't worry, Harry. I can't tell a soul what I see. But you've been Touched, the signs are all over the place. So let's see, where do you want to go?_

_Isn't that what you're here to tell me?_

_For normal kids, I just whisper words to their subconscious. I say things like 'courage' or 'cunning' or 'loyalty' and see what images their mind throws up. They're kids. Only the roughest parts of their personalities are formed. I can see what they truly desire to be by how their unconscious reacts and the general shape of their mind, and I sort them where I think it'll help. _

_To continue the metaphor,_ the Hat said _I see what kind of city they've built. I don't need to go digging into the buildings. You know, that's a truly terrible metaphor. I'll have to think of a better one someday._

The Hat sniffed. _Although some of them argue, as if they knew better. I've been doing this for close to a thousand years._

_So what about me?_ I asked.

_You're different - more mature, and far too cynical. I get a few of you a decade, mostly abuse cases. Your subconscious doesn't trust me. If I tried to whisper to it, it'd try to kick me._ The Hat said._ I can't sort you like I can them. I have to ask, and see how you respond. And, I'm afraid, I'll have to take a deeper look. You'll have to try to hold your mind in check while I do so. Plus there's that monolith_ - _it effects everything__._

_Do I have to?_ I said. _I don't like the idea of a magical artifact poking around my noggin._

_Well, you don't have to be Sorted. You could always go home. _The Hat said. _But I assure you, I cannot reveal anything of what I see, to anyone. _I felt the truth of the Hat's statement. It believed it was being honest, at least.

_Fine. _I said. _But don't blame me if this goes badly._

The Hat pulsed a feeling of amusement, and then I felt it prodding around. I tried to ignore my instinctive reactions to shove it out of my mind and off my head, and possibly set fire to it.

_ I saw that. I'll have you know I'm fireproof. Do you know how many times someone has tried to set me on fire?_

I grinned, and sent a mental image of an angry Hat, marshmallows impaled on its point, being held over a fire.

_Ha, ha. Very funny. _The Hat said sarcastically. I felt the probes pull back.

_Well, you're cunning – but not for its own sake. It's more survival oriented than anything. You'd have no patience for the plots and ambitions in Slytherin. _The Hat continued_. You're not afraid of hard work, but you're very choosy on who you offer loyalty to. You are capable of bravery and great sacrifice, and have a rigid code of honor – Gryffindor would be proud to call you his. Ravenclaw would fit your scholarly leanings, and give you peace to learn._

_Tough choice, really. I can't put you in Slytherin, you'd end up setting someone on fire by the end of the week. The other three – you have sufficient traits for all, though Hufflepuff is iffy. You'd find it difficult to extend the levels of trust they expect. _

The Hat paused, and I could feel it rummaging through my thoughts. _I'm going to have to take a closer look at your 'other self'. You're too interconnected; sorting you without knowing about him would be pointless. _I felt a solid push on what felt like my Dresden memories.

_Oh my. _The Hat sounded shocked. _Oh, wow. Fate really hates you doesn't she?_ _I didn't realize you had so much in here. _

I heard a distinct chuckle. _ Oh yes, now I see. You'd have too little patience for Gryffindor, which is not something I thought possible, and are far too willing to hold a grudge. You make almost as many enemies there as in Slytherin. Lions are quick to judge, but also quick to forgive. You aren't. Hufflepuff would help you – but you don't open up to many, do you? Ravenclaw – you would drive some of them mad, refusing to conform to their rigid understandings. _

_Goodness, you're going to rock someone's boat. But I know where you need to go, Harry. I can see it all in your head. One place that has exactly what you need. Better be…_

"RAVENCLAW!" the Hat shouted and added in my mind _They're due a good shake-up anyways._ _Come talk to me sometime, when you work out why I put you in there._

I handed the hat to McGonagall, and went to take my place next to Hermione, wondering at the Hat's reasoning. I wasn't really surprised that I got told I didn't fit anywhere, and not because I had a surplus of positive traits. Hold grudges, no tolerance for stupidity, inability to trust…they needed a Potter house, whose kids were cynical, short-tempered and sarcastic.

As the rest of the Sorting continued, I glanced towards the staff table, assessing the teachers. Guy in a turban, guy with greasy hair staring at me like I killed his puppy, what looked like a part-Goblin happily conversing with the two witches to the left of him, Gandalf...

Hmm. Gandalf must be Dumbledore, I decided. He was giving me a strange look, assessing me. I avoided his eyes – it makes me look shifty, but it beats soulgazing everyone I meet, something that had become inevitable the first time I had opened my Sight. I sighed; Dresden hadn't had to worry about soulgazes until his teens, the lucky dog.

Perils of forcing my magic early, but it certainly beat the alternatives. Besides, I'd gotten really good at staring at people's noses or foreheads in order to look like I was making eye contact.

I tagged greasy-hair guy as a probable liability given the Death Glare he had settled on, and nudged one of the older students to ask for a who's who on the staff table. Greasy was the Potions teacher, a guy by the name of Severus Snape.

_Aw crap. _ I thought. _It looks like he's holding a grudge. Ah, Dad, did you have to be such a giant dick in school?_ One thing I had quickly noticed, perusing my parent's diaries, was that my father's journal was a seemingly endless litany of pranks, occasional bullying, and general bad behavior. Snape's name came up a lot in that context. Generally labeled as "target".

I sighed. There wasn't much I could do about it, other than be prepared, be very courteous, and to look up the proper procedures for registering a complaint about the staff, just in case. I can do inoffensive, and even if he was so petty as to try to take out his grudge against my dad on me, well – I've got more options than most kids. I turned back to watch the last students be Sorted, and the beginning of the feast.

Gandalf's - I mean Dumbledore's opening words - "Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!" had me rubbing my foreheard. It was going to be a long seven years, putting up with that sort of thing.

Once the food arrived, I happily stuffed myself. The food was excellent, although completely lacking in more modern fare – no pizza, no hamburgers, no fries. I'd been living in Dresden's head long enough to have developed a taste for it. The lack of the staples of modern cuisine weren't done out of health grounds, I decided. Most of the food here would give anyone over 30 a heart attack on sight.

Drinks were the worst. Wizards apparently went for pumpkin juice. Who thinks up something like that? Who looks at a pumpkin and says "I could make a pie out of this, but instead I'll juice it." Thankfully they had tea.

I got to know some of the other Ravens, but tried to spend more time listening than talking. Most of what I said was variations of "No, I don't remember" and "It's just a scar". Thankfully my fame was mostly limited to about two square inches of forehead, although there was the usual surprise I was raised by non-magicals.

I really needed to work out who started the rumor that I was raised in a mansion by powerful magical tutors, in wealth and splendor. My father's family was basically just down to the three of us when he died, but no one seems to have thought "Maybe he went to his mom's relatives" and gone straight to "given to mysterious magical family".

It was obvious that learning I grew up in Surrey with my non-magical relatives and didn't realize I was a wizard until I got my letter did not fit the image they had in mind. It was a bit amusing watching fact and prior belief collide, although it made me wonder how long it'd take before they internalized that I, in all practical respects, muggleborn.

As the feast wound down, Dumbledore got up and made the start of term announcements. Most of them were the usual sorts of things you'd hear at schools – what you're not allowed to do, where you're not allowed to go, but I admit – one really stood out.

"The third floor corridor on the east side is out of bounds to all students who don't wish to die a most painful death".

I let my head fall to the table and proceeded to gently beat my forehead against it, ignoring Hermione's surprised look. I'd lived enough of Dresden's life to know how this was going to turn out. The Hat was right.

Fate hated me.


	7. Classroom Magic

_Rather obviously, Harry Potter is the property of JK Rowlings. Death and Dream are the property of Neil Gaiman. Harry Dresden and the Dresden Files belong to Jim Butcher. They'd probably smack me around for the damage I'm doing to their creations_

Chapter Six: Classroom Magic

Waking from sleep involves a transition, a moment where you are neither asleep nor awake, but partaking of both. It is a special moment, though a dangerous one - you are at your most vulnerable, your dreaming subconscious wide open to the real world, unshielded by dreams or consciousness.

For me, it was normally a time of routine confusion, trying to readjust from being a tall man in his twenties to being a small and scrawny child of barely eleven. Generally it's a brief moment of confusion and the occasional tumble out of bed, though I've grown used to it over the years.

My first morning at Hogwarts involved much more in the way of sheer existential terror than I was usually accustomed to. For the first time in years, I had slept without dreams. No secret life as an adult wizard, no days or weeks of magic and beauty and heart-stopping terror – or just bills and paychecks and the slow, steady grind of tracking down runaway children, lost wallets, or stolen jewelry.

Lying in my bed in Ravenclaw Tower, I listened to the buzz of magic in the walls, the sounds of a castle slowly awakening to life and tried not to cry. It felt like part of me was gone, like a best friend, a brother, an almost father had died.

I shook my head, trying to force myself to get moving. It might have been anything, I told myself. It might be the wards, it might be the magic, or it might be simply the end of whatever weird connection we had. It didn't necessarily mean he'd died in his sleep, right? He'd been safe, asleep behind his wards. He wasn't even on a case, for Merlin's sake.

The dreams always came. Sometimes just a few hours of his life, sometimes days, on occasion weeks, but they always came. Every night, without fail. Not dreaming Dresden's life was like not breathing, or not being "Harry Potter". I sighed, rubbing at my eyes, and forced myself out of bed through sheer stubborn force of will.

I quickly dressed, pulling on my uniform and trying not to panic. I let my eyes wander around the room - I didn't know about the rest of the school, but we got individual rooms, done in the blue and gold motif of our House. Rubbing my eyes one last time, I went out the door and stumbled to the bathroom to wash up.

As I scrubbed my face and teeth, I wondered about the dreams. They had always come, true, but sometimes they were erratic. I frowned, spitting toothpaste into the sink, especially after that business with DuMorne…

I let the thought trail off as I dried my face. I didn't like to think about DuMorne, but afterwards the dreams had been shorter for several weeks. Snippets, brief moments where Dresden was too busy to dwell on DuMorne. I hadn't had to suffer through Dresden's own grief and anger while trying to deal with my own responses to the…incident. I stomped down to the common room and fell into step beside one of the Prefects as she headed for breakfast.

I wasn't up to navigating the maze this morning, and Hogwarts would have tasked even the most enterprising lab rat.

As I wandered through the twisting, changing corridors of Hogwarts, I thought about the dreams. Once wasn't really a trend, but when I'd needed them to they'd slowed down. Thinking back, I tended to dream longer periods of time during the summer, when I had less day to day need for continuity.

We passed down the stairs and into the Great Hall. I ignored the chattering around me – solitary Ravenclaws lost in thought were apparently the norm – and continued to try to reason it out. The dreams had practically stopped when I was constructing my blasting rod, and they'd been covering less and less ground the last month.

Spooning mouthfuls of something – oatmeal, my mouth reported briefly – I wondered if perhaps the Hat hadn't given me a clue. A monolith in my mind, it had said? Maybe thinking of it as a connection was wrong. Maybe I just had the life and times of Harry Dresden sitting in my head, and my subconscious filtering it out to me at a speed I could handle.

I snorted, reaching for the milk. Maybe I was a brain in a jar. Maybe Dresden was real. Maybe he was fictional, though his magic worked well enough. So why did the dreams stop? Perhaps because my mind, or Fate, or whatever was controlling the slow and steady trickle of Dresden into my brain thought I'd be a bit too busy learning a related, but ultimately different form of magic?

I had been worried about getting confused, especially about confusion leading to accidentally breaking a Law. Staining my own soul, darkening myself by miscasting a cheering charm would be unfortunate.

Dwelling on it wouldn't help, I decided. The dreams would start up again or they wouldn't. Either way, I had my own life. I forced myself to attention just in time to catch the end of Hermione's statement.

" - at least that's what I think. What do you think, Harry?"

"Mmhph?" I replied intelligently, mouth full of oatmeal.

"Honestly, Harry, weren't you listening?" she huffed.

I tried not to laugh at the look on her face and shook my head. "Sorry, Hermione. I had a rough night. I sort of spaced out."

"I was saying, Harry" she said, fixing me with a glare "that while the whole doorknob riddle thing sounded interesting and perfect in _Hogwarts, A History_ now that I actually have to deal with it, I'm worried it's just going to be a pain."

I snorted. "The difference between us, Hermione, is that I know it's going to be a pain." I nudged her and pointed. "Here comes Flitwick with our schedules. You should take it up with him."

Letting her splutter to herself over that, I took the proffered schedule from Flitwick. Hmm, surprisingly light. Charms and transfigurations on different days, potions on Friday, Defense against Dark arts twice a week, astronomy at midnight on Wednesday, history of magic twice a week, Herbology twice a week….

"Why do we have a single, large block of Charms, Transfiguration, and Potions instead of shorter, daily classes?" I wondered.

Hermione looked up from her schedule and opened her mouth to talk before Flitwick's high-pitched voice interrupted.

"That's because Charms and Transfiguration are magically intensive for first years. Trying to schedule both on the same day would lead to magically exhausted students, since a lot of energy is wasted in learning a spell."

"As for Potions" Flitwick continued "ingredients are expensive, even growing and collecting so much of it in our own Greenhouses. One lesson a week allows students more time to study the relevant material, leaving the actual brewing for the class. We get more useable potions and far less wasted material if students have a week between brewings to study for the next class."

He handed out the last schedule to a dark-haired second year. "There's also the fact that many potions take hours to brew. You're expected to practice in the Tower's lab. Professor Snape is a particularly harsh task-master, and I expect my Ravens to be prepared." He paused, as if weighing something. "You in particular, Mister Potter, would do well to be _very _prepared for Potions class." He said, moving off.

I didn't miss the emphasis. Yeah, Snape was holding a grudge. I needed to dig a bit more into my parent's journals on that.

Finishing up breakfast, I noted that Transfiguration was in a few hours. That was plenty of time to check out the Library, although I had to grab my books from the dorm first. I let Hermione know what I was planning – she'd wanted to check out the Library too - and headed back up to the Tower while she finished breakfast.

Professor Flitwick had gone over the Ravenclaw specific rules last night. I'd already read the Hogwarts rulebook, but each House apparently had their own. We had a potions lab with a decently stocked cupboard, and a study room devoted to practicing spells. First and second-years had to use them under supervision; supposedly there'd be a schedule up today with volunteers and their hours. We had mandatory meetings with Flitwick at least twice a year to go over our academic performance, and a handful of other rules dealing with study clubs, curfews, and the like.

I absently answered the door-knob riddle – stupid idea, really – and stepped through. The tower was open in the middle, hollow shaft rising all the way to the peaked roof, which was charmed like the Great Hall. From the floor of the tower, you could see all four levels rising up – each floor had a wide balcony that encircled the tower, with bookcases set into the curved walls. I climbed the iron spiral stair to the second floor and walked into my room, grabbing my books before settling into one of the stuffed chairs on the balcony.

Severus Snape, I thought, had been giving me death glares at the Feast. Flitwick had warned me, obliquely, that Snape was going to be a problem. Enough of my father's pranks had focused on Snape for me to remember the name, even though I'd only glanced over my father's school years. I frowned. This was likely to be bad, I thought, as I pulled out my linking book and zeroed in on my father's journals. Skimming through the list of pranks, I groaned. Snape had been one of my father's favorite targets. I bit back a curse as I read through some of the details. Hells bells, anyone would hold a grudge over some of these.

Having access to your parent's thoughts can be both a blessing and a curse to an orphan. On the one hand, it lets you get to know them as people. On the other hand, _you get to know them as people_. I had lived enough and was grown up enough, although mostly vicariously, that I believed I had shed the romantic notions of my parents as perfect people.

Sadly, that wasn't entirely true.

Reading through the laundry list of petty revenge and one-upmanship my father and his friends carried out against Snape was…difficult. Now, reading between the lines and using a large bucket of salt, I got the impression that Snape was not a terribly pleasant person to begin with, and had given as good as he got.

That was, I thought, rather cold comfort given he was going to be one of my teachers and had stared at me like I'd personally shot his dog. I went back to the index and pulled up my mother's diaries, and went digging for references to Snape.

Thank god for magical search functions. Seriously, I loved this thing so much I'd marry it if I could.

Hermione arrived to pull me out of my reading before I'd gotten through all of my mother's entries. As we walked to the Library and she chattered on about how excited she was about the Library and all sorts of facts and figures about it ("Harry, did you know it's the largest magical library open to the public in Britain?" "Harry, did you know the Restricted Section is second only to the Unspeakable's Library?") I mulled over what I'd learned about Snape from my mom.

My mother and Snape had been friends, while my father and Snape had gotten on more like rival gangs. And not the "Jets" versus "Sharks" type, with the singing and dancing. It was closer to a full-fledged mafia war. Pretty much Gryffindor and Slytherin rivalry at its finest, exacerbated by the rising civil war, and the crushes both men had on my mother.

I shuddered for a moment, thinking about what I'd look like if Snape had been my father. Oh god, the nose alone…I shook away the disturbing mental image.

What else? Ah, yes. Snape was a bit of a loner, by all accounts, which made the four-on-one pranks alarming, especially as they got more and more vindictive.

On the other hand, the sheer nastiness of some of the curses he used wasn't something I would have wanted to face without friends – not in a schoolyard, at least. I paused. _Supposedly_ used, I amended. My father's diary was scarcely an unbiased witness.

There'd been two defining incidents, from what I'd read. A particularly _stupid_ prank on Padfoot's part – and by prank I mean "murder attempt". The details were curiously absent, but it involved Moony in some way, and it had taken months before Moony had even deigned to speak to Padfoot again. Apparently my father had even tried to apologize to Snape on Padfoot's behalf, and had unilaterally forced an end to the prank war. There had been a few exchanges of hexes after, but it looked like my father and his friends had realized they'd crossed a line.

I suppose almost getting someone killed would do that to you.

The incident had unsurprisingly set Snape's views on my father and his friends in stone. I couldn't really blame him. The second was the mudblood comment he made about my mother had firmly set _her_ mind in stone about him. Hermione had shown up right after I'd read that, but I doubt they'd reconciled. Snape would have had to eat some serious crow to redeem himself from something like that, and he didn't seem the sort to do so.

As we turned down the hall towards the library, I mulled over the curious fact that nowhere in my father's journal did he use his friend's proper names. I knew who they were – Sirius Black, Peter Pettigrew and Remus Lupin – my mom's journals mentioned my father's friends by name, but nowhere in Dad's journal could you find any of those names. I couldn't help but wonder if he'd gone back and edited his older entries.

I made a mental note to try to track Remus down and ask him about my parents. With Pettigrew dead and Black in Azkaban, he was the last of my parent's close friends around – assuming he was still alive.

I was pouting a bit by the time we entered the library. I wasn't going to have time to read the journals in detail for weeks, perhaps not until the summer. I had actual schoolwork and magic to learn, delving into the history of my family was going to have to wait until I had time to do more than skim and search on keywords.

Pushing that thought aside, I joined Hermione in exploring the Library.

Two hours later found us entering Transfiguration classroom, where Hermione and I took seats near the front and waited for the rest of the class.

The classroom was a rather light and airy place, with big windows letting in plenty of sunlight. I resolutely ignored the fact that the room was well to the interior of the castle and thus shouldn't have windows at all, especially not with a view of the lake. Hermione and I had both agreed that, in order to maintain sanity, we'd simply have to ignore the fact that Hogwarts apparently treated things like "a square has four sides" or "going up a set of stairs should take you further from the ground" as more of guidelines than anything else. Going to school in a castle that would have freaked Escher out was, if nothing else, good for mental flexibility.

There was a cat happily napping in a puddle of sunlight on the teacher's desk. I was idly wondering if it was McGonagall's familiar when Hermione spoke up.

"Harry, if I ask you something, will you give me an honest answer?"

I tore my eyes away from the cat – something about its markings was nagging at me - to answer. "I can try, Hermione. I can't promise I'll answer, but I can promise what I say is at least honest."

She nodded, biting her lower lip. I wondered what had her so nervous.

"Are we friends?" she blurted out.

Ah. _That._ I recognized that. Half hopeful desperation, half waiting for the shoe to drop – been there, done that, wrote the best-selling novel. The world is full of people who see the smart kid and think "Hey! Free homework!"

Not that I was all that smart. I was just a bit more grown-up than the average bear. Err, wizard.

"That" I said "is a harder question than you might think. In a sense, yes, in a sense…no." Her crestfallen expression had me hurrying to continue.

"We haven't known each other long enough to be friends, Hermione. I like you. I find your enthusiasm for learning infectious, and you're fun to talk to. I'm working towards becoming your friend, if that's what you're asking. But" I said, waving my hand to indicate the classroom "if you're worried I'm just acting friendly to get you to do my homework or something, don't be. I do my own work. I like smart people because I like good conversation, not because I need a tutor."

I paused. "Well, also I'm in Ravenclaw. If I didn't like smart people, I'd be kinda screwed for the next several years."

She smiled at me rather radiantly. _She has a cute smile_ I thought absently _the teeth actually make it cuter, but I bet she wouldn't believe that. And is it my imagination or is that cat listening to our conversation?_ It had jumped off the desk and was sitting on the floor nearby, grinning far too much for my taste.

"Thanks Harry. I'd like to work on becoming your friend too. I haven't had a lot of friends my age."

"I haven't had a lot of friends my age either." I said, still staring at the cat. "Is it my imagination or is that cat…"

I got interrupted by the door slamming open, and a small horde of children clamoring in. The cat jumped back up onto the desk from where it had been loitering. I'm pretty sure it nodded at me.

Once all everyone had settled down, including a pair that arrived panting at the last minute, the door closed, and the cat leapt off the table and turned into Professor McGonagall in mid-air – and, I noted, totally stuck the landing.

She might give off that Wicked Witch of the West vibe at times, with the pointed hat and "I shall take no nonsense from thee, and will hex you until your legs fall off if you cross me" attitude, but I'll give her ten out of ten for style.

While I and the rest of the class got over our surprise and admiration for a skill I had always been eager to learn (shifting your form is _hard. _All that mass has to go – or come from – somewhere, and how do you go on thinking like a person with a cat's brain?), she lectured the late comers on their tardiness, and then proceeded to spend half the class talking about the basics of Transfiguration.

I'd read the theories. Plural. Magic is as much art as science and people often reach the same end through wildly different, often contradictory paths. I'd focused a lot on magic theory, in the run-up to the start of term, and I'd focused very heavily on transfiguration.

One of the Laws was "_Thou shalt not transform others"_. And since the penalty for violating the law was losing your head, I'd have taken it seriously even if I hadn't seen firsthand the sort of mental damage it does. Transfiguration was all about transformation and it extended up to live transformations.

Transforming a rat into a teacup (second year, if I remembered correctly) might not violate the Law, precisely, but it'd still stain your soul. So I spent a lot of time trying to sort out how they managed to do years of transfigurations, culminating in human ones – apparently they used to do human-to-animal at times as punishment for school infractions – without turning out entire graduating classes of psychopaths.

I had a theory, one I was prepared to work from on a provisional basis. I think I'd even semi-accepted such things as somewhat moral because it appeared that the differences seemed to avoid psychic damage on both sides. You'd still, I have no doubt, be deeply upset at an involuntary transformation – but it wouldn't be the deep, psychic damage it'd be if Dresden changed you into a rat. Assuming there was any "you" left to think with, when you were turned back.

If you were turned back. People who transformed others in Dresden's world tended to be called "Warlocks' and they were more known for being several cards short of a full deck than for mercy or forgiveness.

I still thought turning rats into teacups was somewhat pointless, and cruel to the rat. Rocks into teacups, maybe. It's easier to catch a rock than a rat.

After an hour or so on basic transfiguration theory, we got into the specifics of today's spell – matchsticks into needles. Professor McGonagall spent some time on the three basic wand movements for it, as well as the incantation, and then started passing out matchsticks.

Studying ahead, I knew why we started with this specific example – the matchsticks she was handing out were used over and over; the spell was relatively simple and the visualization very easy. So you had items predisposed to switch - repetitive magic wears grooves in reality, for lack of a better term – an easy, instinctive mental image, and it was a low-powered spell with fairly simple movements and incantation.

And belief is a powerful force in any magic. To do magic, you need to believe you can do magic. If you think you can't, you can't. We were given matchsticks that didn't need much of a shove to switch, to bolster belief and get us used to pulling and shaping magic.

Or so sayeth the books.

Having passed out the last matchstick, McGonagall told us to get started.

I stared at that matchstick for several minutes, listening to muttered and shouted dog Latin – the spell incantations were done in Latin for the same reason I used pseudo-Latin, it made you focus on what you were doing and you weren't likely to say it in conversation and accidentally discharge a spell.

Admittedly the last was probably more my problem. My magic lived closer to the surface, so to speak. But Dresden-style or with wands, it didn't matter – doing magic was the act of imposing your will on reality, and words and thoughts and will were all interrelated.

I noticed Hermione had managed to get her matchstick to turn silver. Another student had managed to send his shooting through the air – I thought it was Ron Weasley, judging by the shouts. Most people were just waving their wands almost randomly, and shouting louder, as if trying to intimidate the match into a needle.

I took a deep breath and pulled out my wand. This is just basic magic, I told myself. Even if you screw this up and do it directly, there's no Law against changing matches to needles. It's never been alive; it's not going to be alive.

I tuned out the classroom, the shouting and whispering and occasionally sharp comment from McGonagall, focusing entirely on the match. I let my wand slip into the proper mnemonic. Swish right to bear on matchstick, clockwise rotation, then a jab directly at the object of the transfiguration. I repeated it over and over, visualizing the needle I wanted. I squashed the urge to draw and gather power. This was wand magic, it came from inside - not without.

I felt the magic rise in me, answering my call. I felt it surge down my arm, pulled into my wand. I let it gather and whispered the incantation as I swished, twisted, and jabbed.

Energy rushed forth, and my match exploded. Loudly.

I blinked.

"A little too much power there, Mister Potter." I heard from behind me. McGonagall appeared and with a quick twitch of her wand my matchstick reassembled. I resolutely ignored Hermione's giggle. "Delicately, Mister Potter, delicately - Transfiguration is an art of imagination and finesse."

Right. Okay. Too much power.

"Oh well done, Miss Granger. Five points for Ravenclaw. Now try turning it back."

I marshaled my focus and tried again. I gripped my wand and let the power rise with my intent, flicked and jabbed, striving to moderate the power. The wand – heck, magic itself – seemed to want to help, leaving me feeling unbalanced. My internal magic _lagged_, for lack of a better term, bunching up and stretching out in weird ways as I tried to channel it.

Nine tries later, including two matchsticks that were entirely lost causes, I looked down at my matchstick. It was taunting me, I could tell. Or defective, perhaps. Yes, I'd obviously gotten a defective, trash-talking match. Just like the first two.

Hermione had managed to reverse hers, and then repeat the transfiguration. She was working on reversing it again. She'd obviously gotten a much more cooperative match. She and several other Ravens who'd managed the transfiguration. It was obviously a conspiracy.

I took a few deep breaths, letting myself settle down. The last time had been fairly close; it had turned silver, although it hadn't been metal – just color. Visualize the needle, I thought; bringing to my mind the cold feel of metal rather than warm wood, the hefty mass of steel. I let my thoughts fill with the image of a sewing needle and swished and twisted my wand. Magic rose, smooth and calm, swirling around my mental image.

There was a strange sensation of _coalescence_ and I felt magic solidifying around my visualization. I jabbed my wand and spoke the incantation and power slid freely from mind to wand to matchstick and I found myself looking at a perfect needle.

Huh, I thought, as McGonagall congratulated me. I picked up the needle, feeling the sensation of my magic around it. So that's how it works. It's not just visualization. You had to let your magic taste the image and link to it, and then release the magic.

I frowned, contemplating my needle, trying to decide what I had finally done right. I was used to manipulating power and visualizing results – far more so than the other students. But all my mental tools for evocation and thaumaturgy weren't quite right for wand magic. Mental constructs, visualization – they were a focus for Dresden style magic. For wands, they were closer to a target of sorts.

I sighed, poking the needle with my wand. Learning this was going to suck, I decided. Any hopes I had of blowing through the Hogwarts curriculum on the strength of Dresden's experience had just evaporated. I'd probably have it a lot easier than most, and be able to keep up with the true prodigies, but I'd have to work pretty hard. It was all just close enough that I had to fight trained instincts. The overlap was going to kill me, I concluded glumly.

By the end of class, virtually everyone had made at least some progress. All the Ravens had either managed the transfiguration or gotten very close – something none of the Gryffindors could say. Judging from their comments, the Lions hadn't bothered with looking at the theory ahead of time. I shook my head at that. It was difficult enough to do if you came to class prepared.

I had managed to reverse and repeat the transfiguration two more times. That feeling of connection, of magic accreting around my mental image before flowing out my wand was still difficult. It still took several seconds of perfect concentration before mind and magic linked and I could complete the spell, but it was getting a bit easier each time.

I suspected that, with time and a lot of practice, it'd become second nature. It was also, I thought as the class ended and we all stumbled to lunch, very tiring.

The rest of the week went somewhat better, at least until Friday. In Charms, we started work on the wand movements all wand mnemonics are built from, not that Professor Flitwick called them mnemonics, and then learned the simplest of all charms – the basic light spell.

Everyone seemed to find that one easier than transfiguration. Again, it took me more work than I'd hoped, but I got it down before the end of class. As with transfiguration, my past experience was about as much hindrance as it was help.

Hermione and I spent a good several hours Thursday evening in the practical study room, practicing spells. She was working ahead, but I spent the time playing with the _lumos_ charm. I was using a variant of the charm, which allowed you to specify color, and which Hermione insisted I teach her – and sat there lighting and extinguishing my wand for two hours, bathing my corner of the room in soft moonlight over and over and over.

I needed the practice more than anyone guessed. Swapping from _lumos_ to my own light evocation required a type of mental flexibility I had never had to learn, and the last thing I wanted was to have a burning need to switch from patterned spells to pure evocation and find myself flailing, trying to switch mental gears.

I was magically exhausted by the time it was done, but I think I'd mastered the trick. I planned to keep practicing until switching was effortless.

The upper-year nominally keeping an eye on us looked at me quizzically a few times, obviously wondering why I had such a burning need to become master of the light charm. I told him I was afraid of the werewolves under my bed.

Nobody gets me.

Astronomy was tiring and boring – just constellation labeling and I wasn't sure why we were doing it at midnight. Hadn't these people ever heard of a planetarium? Surely people who can charm up a fake sky over the Great Hall can spell a classroom ceiling to look like the night sky.

Actually performing spells that depended on the phase of the moon or the position of the stars, sure – you do it when the stars are right. But just learning the night sky?

History was just as boring as my parent's journals had said. It was taught by a ghost, and as far as I could tell he was simply reading the book aloud as a 'lecture'. So I simply read the book and ignored the sniffs of disapproval from Hermione.

Herbology was fascinating. The Nevernever is full of vicious, magical plants – the Nevernever is full of practically anything you can imagine, especially if it's terrifying and likes to eat people – but playing around with them in a greenhouse is an entirely different experience. For one, I wasn't running in terror and setting things on fire.

I resolved to refer to Herbology as 'Extreme Gardening' after I watched the teacher take a heavy bat to one particularly recalcitrant plant.

I took copious notes on Extreme Gardening, since not only were the properties of these plants important in potions, learning to harvest and grow them meant you didn't have to buy them. I suspected someone with a real knack for it, like Neville, probably had a license to print money. Or mint gold. I noted down several mundane looking plants that I could grow at the Dursley's without violating the Secrecy Laws - or getting the paper boy eaten.

Defense against Dark Arts was simply awful. Quirell stuttered, making it hard to understand anything he said, and the place reeked of garlic. It was yet another class that I was going to be primarily learning from the book, with actual the actual classroom being a serious waste of time. According to some of the upper-year Ravens we'd have a new professor next year, as the job was apparently cursed. I did wonder how someone could curse a position, especially in a castle this heavily warded. I spent a good chunk of DADA doodling out a thaumaturgical approach to the problem, trying to figure out how to anchor a curse to a job.

Hey, I still wasn't dreaming Dresden's life. I had to keep my skills sharp. And I lacked Bob, I lacked actual spellbooks – I had what I had learned, and everything else I was going to have to reason out. Or anything I needed that Dresden hadn't needed. Luckily, a lot of it was lore – what was what and who was who, and I was sitting in a castle full of books on that.

For Dresden-style magic, I had the foundations of evocation and thaumaturgy, and I could slowly work from there.

I tried to get in at least thirty minutes a night writing down what I knew about Dresden's magic into my journals, the ones backed up in the Potter Library. Perhaps one of my descendents would have the talent, or god forbid – I might forget something I need to know. I wasn't like I could pop down to Bock Ordered Books and buy a copy of _Elementary Magic_.

But with enough time, I could write it.

Defense Against Dark Arts might actually be an excellent time to do that, I thought. As it was, I left class with a morally questionable doodle – it did involve an entropy curse, after all – and a pounding headache.

I was also pretty sure that, in Dresden's world, you could have fixed the DADA problem by either moving the class to another room or changing the job title. I wondered what they'd tried to fix it here.

My last class was Potions. It was fairly unpleasant and promised to be so for quite some time to come.

I got there early, and claimed a seat about the middle of the classroom. Hermione got there not long after, sliding in next to me. I'd already made up my mind to partner with Hermione in practically everything for two reasons – first, because I knew a good thing when I saw it. Any of the Ravenclaws could keep up with me – I was here more on the strength of weird mystical mental development, rather than raw smarts – but Hermione was capable of pushing me, and once you got her past her urge to quote books, she could be very insightful for a kid.

She reminded me a bit of Bob, really.

Secondly, and more importantly, types like Hermione attracted leeches. Low self-esteem and good homework skills just attracted the wrong sort. I wasn't going to treat her like a homework machine, and I wasn't going to let anyone else do it either. I was fairly certain she'd grow into a good person, given a bit of space and time to do so.

Lastly, if I partnered with her, I could keep grinding down on her biggest, most glaring social flaw – her absolute and driving need to not only be the best, but be visibly the best. Bookworm pride, teacher's pet – call it what you will. It's a flaw of pride. But it's fixable, especially if you have a friend willing to call you on it in a _nice_ way – and discreetly stomp on your foot every time you do it.

I firmly planned to be that friend. She knew what I was doing – I'd taken time after our Transfiguration class to talk to her about it. She wasn't happy to hear it – who would be? But she already knew it was a bad habit, so we'd made a deal. I'd work with her on her over-eagerness in class, calling her on her behavior. In return, I'd promised her access to a few of the family books.

I didn't tell her about the everybook, but did tell her I had some rare books I had inherited from the family, and would help her start her own family library with a few, once I was capable of copying them. She was so excited she stopped crying, hugged me, and then chattered excitedly for thirty minutes about all the ways wizards ward books to prevent copying.

Those worried me, but I figured my family already broken them to get the everybook to work. I was hoping I could give her the first one for her birthday next year, so I had some time. In the meantime, I had convinced her to let me stomp on her foot, so to speak, whenever her bad habits popped up. I think she thought I was speaking metaphorically.

She was already showing improvement – and a slight limp.

As the Potions classroom filled up – we were mixed with the Lions again - I cautioned her again about being overeager, especially with Snape. I had asked around about him and few of the other Ravens had anything good to say beyond his obvious understanding of the art. At best, he tolerated students.

Hermione wasn't totally oblivious to the angry sneers Snape had been sending my way at dinner, although her instinctive regard for authority was balancing it out. I had managed to get her to promise to lay low during his class, especially if Snape was targeting me.

I was rather impressed with the classroom. Like Ollivander's back room, it just had the right vibe. Suspicious looking jars filled with unidentifiable bits, battered old wooden work tables, antique looking burners for cauldrons, a simple revolving blackboard up front – it was basically only a stuffed crocodile away from being the perfect Wizard's Lab.

At exactly 1:00 on the dot the door slammed open and Snape barged in, cloak billowing. His entrance was even more theatrical than McGonagall's – trust me, your cloak doesn't swoop like that unless you want it to. I wasn't all that surprised by his intimidating entrance. It was a dangerous class. The risks of catastrophe were high, even with the simple things we did during the first two years of Potions.

Kids, at least eleven year olds, aren't going to really have a firm idea of the dangers involved. Mean teachers, however, they understood perfectly.

If it took theatricality and a cultivated aura of fear to keep kids from playing "Toss everything into the cauldron and see what explodes?" that was just fine in my book. Although I suspect he also enjoyed swooping around like a bat. Dresden felt the same way about his duster.

He started off with a rather well-done, if a bit over the top, speech about the intricacies of potions, his voice rising and falling as he spoke, and ending with the sort of passion and control that would have put shivers up the spine of even the most jaded theater patron. The savage professionalism of it was a bit wasted on a classroom of eleven-year-olds as it merely frightened most of them out of their wits.

Having finished playing Batman, he turned his attention, and what looked like a full-on Class 11 glare, directly at me.

"Mister Potter….our resident celebrity. Tell me, Mister _Potter_" he sneered, seeking out my eyes "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

Straight from the introductory chapter of the Potions book, I thought, schooling my face and focusing on his nose. "Draught of Living Death, Sir".

"And where would you find a bezoar, Mister Potter?" He asked, not missing a beat.

This one was from the Potions safety manual. I'd studied that at length, once I realized potions were as apt to blow up or set things on fire as work.

Continuing to avoid his eyes, I responded. "In the stomach of a goat, Professor. It is a common antidote to most poisons. There should be one in our potions kit, as well as one in the supply cupboard in case of accidental ingestion of poisons."

He paused, looking briefly surprised, and then continued "And the difference between monkshood and Wolfsbane?"

"They're the same plant, Professor. Also call aconite." That was in the back of the first year text. The first chapter recommended reviewing that appendix, because some potions instructors preferred different names and confusion tended to equal exciting explosions. "The term can also be used to differentiate between different parts of the same plant, though the appendix was unclear as to how."

He swirled away from me, cloak flaring. "You won't be dealing with wolfsbane anytime soon, Potter. I'm glad to see you weren't too busy to read the required materials." He glared malevolently at the rest of the class and demanded. "_Why aren't you writing this down?"_

He spent a bare few sentences introducing today's practical – the boil-cure potion, sadly only good for magically induced boils. It basically dealt with a few common school-yard hexes that didn't have an easy counter-spell – actually curing real boils took a bit more doing. His teaching method wasn't the best – he basically slapped the directions on the board and told us to get brewing.

I compared the board to the book, and noticed that he had added two extraneous ingredients and had neglected to state the proper preparation of another – it needed to be chopped with a silver knife, not the ordinary potions knife. None of the changes would do anything other than reduce the efficacy of the potion – every critical juncture, where the book had big red warnings, was correct.

I snagged Hermione's hand as she obviously went to question it and whispered to her to leave it alone. No way had he done that on accident. I sent her to collect ingredients while I laid out the tools we'd need, filled the cauldron with the base – distilled water – and put it on a low fire.

Hermione returned, and we began preparing the potion. I noticed Snape started gliding our way when we got to the first of the incorrect stages. I felt magic flare up around us from his wand causing the background noise to fade away – so much for no "foolish wand-waving" – as he snapped "Potter! Why aren't you adding the powdered beetle shells? Can't you follow simple instructions?"

Without pausing what I was doing, I responded "The instructions on the board differed from those in the book, Professor. I am following the book's instructions" and stepped heavily on Hermione's foot when she opened her mouth to say something.

"So" he sneered over Hermione's wince. "You think you know better than me?"

"Not at all, Professor" I replied, keeping my tone even and respectful.

"Seven stirs counterclockwise,, then turn down the flame." I told Hermione, before continuing to address Snape.

"The safety guide for this class states that unless _specifically_ noted by the instructor, the instructions in the book are to supersede any others." I said.

I caught Hermione's surprised look from the corner of my eye and hid a smile. Ha! Score one for Potter. She apparently hadn't noticed that.

"If," the word was practically hissed as I poured the next ingredient into the cauldron "Mister Potter, you can remain this civil and this prepared, you might manage to survive my class. However, the dandelion stems you just added should have been pulped and not crushed. Five points from Ravenclaw."

He turned and swept off, and I felt the magic drop and the sounds of the busy classroom return. He'd erected a privacy bubble of some sort. I'd have to learn that.

"Harry" Hermione whispered "What was that about?"

I sighed and turned up the flame for the next stage "It's a long story, and not really mine to tell. I just suggest you read ahead, especially the lab manual, and stay out of it when he's quizzing me. Or pick another lab partner."

She snorted. "He loathes you and that's the first time you two talked. Even I can tell that's something personal." She blew hair out of her face and continued "I meant that stuff about the book and the instructions. Why'd he write them wrong?"

I laughed, quietly – no need to bring down the wrath of Snape. "That? Probably to see who reads the chapters ahead of time, and who read the lab manual. I suspect he does that to all the first year classes, to figure out who is stupid enough to think he can prepare a potion just by reading the board."

I pointed my knife at the cauldron "These things are dangerous, Hermione. It's really easy to screw up, and the results – melted cauldrons, explosions, things catching on fire, spontaneous creation of acids….it's enough to turn your hair white. And this is the kiddy pool stuff."

She turned off the flame and I went to bottle our samples. Not quite the perfect shade, but the consistency and color were just inside the useable band. Probably, I admitted to myself, from screwing up the dandelions.

"You are right that it's personal too. He'll harass me even if I demonstrate competence. Everyone else I bet he just scares so they won't screw around and kill someone. But" I said "I can handle it. If it gets too bad, I'll complain to Flitwick. He's not nearly as intimidating as he thinks."

"I know why he's doing it, I think it's a bit petty, but honestly it's just not that bothersome. And" I grinned suddenly "it'll drive him nuts if I do well in his class."

I handed her my labeled vial to turn in, and began ladling the rest of the potion into vials, which I labeled with the potion name and date. The charms in my Autobot trunk's potions compartment would keep it fresh for years. Waste not, want not, I thought.

I made a mental note to order more vials. I'd probably be collecting a decent amount of interesting potions this year alone, and I had no intention of throwing out properly made potions.

As we continued to clean up, I watched Snape stalk the classroom and smiled grimly. I'd worked with teachers who'd hated me before. Potions class was a walk in the park compared to the Doom of Damocles. Snape had _no_ idea what a real 'zero tolerance' policy was like.


	8. Happy Halloween

_Rather obviously, Harry Potter is the property of JK Rowlings. Death and Dream are the property of Neil Gaiman. Harry Dresden and the Dresden Files belong to Jim Butcher. They'd probably smack me around for the damage I'm doing to their creations._

School Spirit

Chapter Seven: Happy Halloween

October 31st – Halloween. To most people it's just a festival celebrating the Candy Gods. To those of a more supernatural bent it's a lot more. It is the night when the bounds between life and death are at its thinnest, when ghosts and spirits tend to wander the land.

Historically, it was the day you took stock of your herds and grain and chose which animals would be slaughtered to see the rest through the winter. It was the night you spent telling stories of the revered dead. In myth and story, Halloween was when heroes started their quests, when villains kicked off their nefarious plots, and almost always the day the story really began.

Halloween is a day of choices - choices of life and death, of good and evil.

Even the mundane recognize it, deep in their bones. They dress as ghosts and skeletons, as heroes and villains, as maidens and monsters. Deep down inside, they remember the roots of Halloween.

Halloween was also the day I was orphaned – and the day Harry Dresden was born. I've never, even for a moment, thought it was a coincidence.

The wizards I was currently coming out of charms class with were of the "Candy Gods" persuasion. Halloween was just an excuse for a feast. No one had mentioned All Hallows Eve or Samhain, and my parent's diaries were equally silent.

It was a night of power that was mostly forgotten, or perhaps never known. Since the most puissant magics one could work on Halloween involved death, living sacrifices, spirits, and ghosts - I suppose I could live with it. Necromancy wasn't exactly happy fun time for anyone, and even its kinder, gentler cousin of ectomancy was all too easily abused.

Plus, I liked candy.

I was drawn from my musings by the sound of Ron Weasley's voice. I wanted to like Ron, I really did. It's just he had a terminal case of "youngest brother" syndrome coupled with a complete aversion to work.

He really wanted to stand out from his brothers, but didn't want to actually have to make an effort. Add in some untreated foot-in-mouth, and he routinely got on the bad side of people.

He wasn't a pariah like Malfoy – or rather, like Malfoy would be if people weren't so concerned with his Daddy – he was just your typical kid struggling for identity, and had the misfortune to be a bit spoiled and clueless on top of it. He'd grow out of it, but it didn't stop me from wanting to smack him at times.

Normally he wasn't my problem. He'd hung around with me a few times, but once he worked out I liked to learn, and had no intention of ditching schoolwork for Quidditch, chess or generalized goofing-off, he'd quickly taken to spending his time with a pair of Gryffindors.

His twin brothers were pretty cool. One of the upper-year Ravens had directed me to them when I needed something specific to finish my shield bracelet – they were able to get exactly what I wanted surprisingly quickly, without any of the hassle older students might have given me.

I'm not sure what they thought about my sudden need for a few grams of powdered stag antler, but they managed to acquire it for a very reasonable price.

As fun and generally amusing as the twins were and as understanding as I was of Ron's immaturity – at the moment I ready to strangle him, because he had just sent Hermione running off in tears.

I ignored his friends and slammed him into the wall. "What" I gritted out "the hell did you say that for, Ron?"

"Because it's true!" he shouted. "She's an annoying know-it-all who doesn't have any friends!"

"It's not true, you moron!" I shouted back. "I'm her friend, and as for being an annoying know-it-all – she was just _trying to help you learn the stupid charm, __you half-wit!"_

I probably couldn't have honestly said that a few months back, but after almost two months of stepping on her feet, and several sessions of letting her cry on my shoulder, she'd gotten rid of the worst of her over-eager nature. She still had relapses, but she'd broken past her need for constant validation from teachers and peers.

We were still working on my sarcastic mannerisms. I felt I was gruffly charming. She had another term for it.

"As for friends" I continued, in a softer tone "both Neville and I are her friends."

"Why?" he demanded. "Does she do your homework? Why don't you come hang out with us?" he said, gesturing to his friends.

I resisted the urge to hit him. My casual friendship slash market arrangement with his brothers must have set him off again. He'd apparently been looking forward to meeting me, and the fact that I hadn't ended up in Gryffindor was apparently a blow he was still recovering from. I'm sure it was doubly upsetting that I was on good terms with the Twins.

I counted to ten under my breath, trying to stay calm. I didn't react well to people hurting my friends. At all.

"I don't hang out with you, _Ron" _I said with forced calm "Because we are not friends. And we are not going to be friends, Ron, because among other things you keep insulting Hermione."

I let go of his collar. "No, she does not do my homework. Or Neville's either, although I can tell you that both of our grades are much higher for her help. I distinctly recall offering to let you join our study group, and the few times you have shown up you've just wanted someone to finish your essays for you."

"Now, _Ron" _I said. "You're going to take some time today to compose a nice apology. You're going to write it down and send it to her. And if you make her cry again, I'll hex you into next week_."_

"Or" I said "I'll get her to do it. She's_ inventive and knows a lot of spells. _And your brothers like her." I saw him pale satisfactorily as I turned to catch up with Hermione.

Idiot, I thought as I jogged down the hallway, trying to figure out which way she'd gone. I'd better get his brothers to prank some more sense into him. Then again they may have been the ones to prank it out of him in the first place. Choices, choices, I thought.

I spent the bulk of the day looking for her, using my keen detective skills: I kept asking people if they'd seen her. When she didn't show up to history class, I finally decided to resort to more esoteric measures.

I retreated to my room and dug out a piece of chalk, and cast two of the very few 'extracurricular' spells I had learned. I was having enough problems switching between magic types – my ability to work ahead in the curriculum was somewhat limited.

But I'd made it a point to dig up some basic privacy charms, suitable for a first year. I'd found a subtle, if weak, privacy ward and a simple locking charm. They weren't very powerful but I could cast them reliably, and weak wards that worked were far better than strong ones that didn't. The ward would simply make my room look uninteresting and encourage people to remember other things they had to do, and the locking charm was notable only in that it didn't yield to the _alohomora _spell. Someone seeking to unlock my door would have to know something besides the basic unlocking charm_._

I went ahead and toggled my Autobot desk to shrink up – I needed the floor space – and carefully sketched out a chalk circle around myself and willed it closed. I breathed a sigh of relief as the circle rose. Hogwarts was so _noisy. _Between people constantly casting spells, all the enchanted items, and the pervasive wards, I was constantly bombarded with the feel of magic. Sheer sensory self-defense was making my very good at adjusting the gain of my magic senses, but it was nice to sit in the metaphorical silence for a bit_._

And for what I had in mind, very necessary. Thaumaturgy is a tricky and subtle art easily influenced by background magic. Trying thaumaturgy without a circle at Hogwarts would be like trying to strike a match at the bottom of the sea.

What I had in mind was pretty simple – I wanted to find Hermione. I didn't know any wand spells that would do the trick, but I knew a heck of a lot of ways to find her using Dresden's magic.

Of course, most of those required some bit of her like hair or fresh blood, although prized personal possessions would do in a pinch. I didn't have anything like that – but I had something just as good.

I unhooked the woven red and black leather bracelet on my right wrist and set it on the floor. I learned a few days after school started that Hermione's birthday was in September – International Talk Like a Pirate Day in fact, something I planned to use against her next year. Unfortunately, two weeks isn't a lot of time to acquire a suitable gift when you live in a boarding school that not only lacks convenient gift shops, but bans trips to the local town to anyone under third year.

Inspiration had struck when I was working on my shield bracelet. I had gotten several strips of dragon hide as well as leather-working tools while in Diagon Alley. And I had a pretty fair amount of leather-working know-how – magical focus creation requires the basics of working with wood, leather, and metal.

So I took two of the pieces of dragon hide – one from a Hebridean Black and the other from a Chinese Fireball, and carved them into long strips, and wove two simple friendship bracelets from them, complete with metal clasps.

Yeah, I know, it was cheesy. But I had no notice, no way to shop, and we're kids. And, to be honest, it was fitting. She's my first real friend, and I'm pretty sure I'm hers. I might even tell her about Dresden sometime – and maybe see if I can teach her a bit of real magic.

So cheesy or not, it meant a lot to her and more than I thought to me. I will tell you this – that girl can crack ribs when she hugs.

Magically speaking, finding things is all about connections. Finding them, recognizing them, and following them. A drop of your blood was once part of your body, once part of you – and remains linked to you. It's the same principle Voodoo dolls are built on.

My bracelet was made at the same time, with the same materials, even by the same craftsman. They were linked in their materials, in their crafting, and most importantly – in my intent to make them two connected objects that symbolized our friendship.

I could use one bracelet to find the other, which should be around Hermione's wrist. I hadn't really thought about it at the time, but the bracelets held a very strong symbolic and magically powerful link. As long as she and I both considered each other friends, it'd take someone using strong and very specific countermeasures to prevent me from finding her.

Or they could just take the bracelet off her wrist and drop it somewhere. Sometimes the simple solutions are best.

Tossing that thought aside, I dangled the bracelet from my fingers and mulled over my options. Since the Feast was undoubtedly already started, I wouldn't have crowded hallways to deal with. I didn't want to dowse, lacked a map of Hogwarts for scrying….

Ah-hah! I thought, quickly re-clasping the bracelet. I quickly sketched in a few runes around me – some for focus and binding, some for vision and perception. Centering myself, I held the bracelet over one eye, like a monocle.

_"Segui votro testatum"_ I intoned, and felt the energy fill me, focusing behind my eye. I stood and breached the circle with my foot, grinning as I felt the magic settle.

Let's see how this works, I thought. I canceled the spells on the door and stepped out into the empty Ravenclaw common room.

Looking around, I spotted a glimmer in the air visible only through my left eye – the one I'd held the bracelet over. The glimmer solidified as I focused, turning into a gently coruscating golden ribbon that stretched from the first year girl's dorms out the door.

"Follow the yellow brick road" I said to myself, and trotted out into Hogwarts Castle.

I hadn't been following the meandering route for more than a few minutes before I realized I'd done a sloppy job on the spell. It wasn't taking me to Hermione – it was retracing her path. I started moving a bit faster, following it to the Great Hall, where I could hear the sounds of the Halloween feast in full swing. I got close to the door and the path wobbled, before branching and heading back around heading towards the west-side stairs.

Breakfast and then class, I thought.

I headed up the stairs to the Charms classroom, and again watched it branch at the door, this time heading towards the middle set of stairs – the way she'd run off when Weasley had opened his big mouth.

The path led up a floor, and ended at the fifth-floor girl's bathroom. It was a really out of the way set of bathrooms – I'd bet half the school didn't even remember they were there. I trotted to the door and waited for the path to branch off. It stubbornly didn't.

I looked around, confused. The spell was still active – I could see the golden path going in. But it wasn't going out, which meant….

I sighed and knocked on the door, eventually hearing a shouted "Go away!" She'd been in there for hours, I thought glumly, and has no doubt gotten herself all worked up. I'm going to have to prank Ron personally if he doesn't apologize.

I knocked again and announced "I'm coming in, Hermione" before cracking open the door and entering. The path led straight to the furthest stall from the door. I let the spell collapse, and walked towards the stall.

"Hello, Hermione" I said. "I looked for you after Charms, but I couldn't catch you. I checked back at the dorms, and then the Great Hall. No one had seen you."

I heard a muffled sob.

"So when you didn't show up to lunch or History, I went ahead and tracked you down. It wasn't easy, luckily I'm pretty awesome."

Another muffled sob.

"So you're missing the feast. Because of Ron "Foot-in-Mouth" Weasley. That doesn't seem like the response of the smartest girl in Hogwarts." I said.

I heard another sob. "Why do you put up with me, Harry? You heard Ron. I'm nothing but an annoying-know-it all with no friends!"

"Hey!" I said "I'm your friend. Neville's your friend. We didn't hassle Hooch into getting us approval for those Saturday flying lessons because we hate spending time with you."

She and Neville were atrocious on a broom. I was semi-competent, but that's the most you can say. Neville had fallen on his first attempt, breaking his wrist – and leading to some ridiculous show-down between Malfoy and Ron that ended up with both the fools in detention. Needless to say, he was even more nervous on a broom now. Hermione was just plain terrified of heights. I merely had a healthy respect for how badly I could hurt myself on the stupid things.

We'd gotten Hooch to let us have an hour or so each Saturday to practice flying – we'd all technically 'passed', but that didn't mean much, and we all needed to be better. Hooch grudgingly allowed it – she lacked the time for helping us, although Merlin only knows what she did besides the introductory broom classes and refereeing Quidditch matches – but she required we have a qualified older student to watch us.

It had taken some begging and a bit of bribery, but we'd convinced She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named - a seventh year from Hufflepuff - to watch us. And by "watch us" I meant "studied for her NEWTS while we practiced." It turns out that Tonks – her last name, it was her first that caused the hexing – was a distant cousin of mine. Between that, Neville's begging, and her natural Puff loyalty, she had good-naturedly agreed to help.

We'd only had two weekends to practice, but we were improving. Neither Hermione nor Neville really understood why I insisted we learn, but Dresden would have understood in a heartbeat – brooms were a potential quick exit, and top of the line ones were as fast as or faster than most cars.

I leaned up against the stall door as she responded. "No, I just…don't know why you want to be my friend."

I laughed. "I could say the same about you being my friend. The other Ravens seem to find me a bit off-putting, and you and Neville are the only two that seem comfortable around me. Heck, you're the only two that get my jokes."

I heard a muffled snort, and a half-laugh. "That's because you have a horrible sense of humor, Harry. And Neville doesn't get most of them he just laughs to be polite, although don't think I didn't see you loaning him _The Color of Magic._"

"It's a good book. Reading just school books all the time will make you go crazy. That's why I made you read _The Silent Tower_. And if you don't come out, I won't let you borrow the sequel."

I heard her shuffling around, and stepped back as the door creaked open. "I only read it because you bet me that I wouldn't know who she based the main character off of."

I pouted as she exited the stall, making her roll her eyes. Her hair was a mess, her eyes puffy and red-rimmed. She'd obviously been crying all day. I grinned at her. "You look gorgeous as always, Hermione. And how was I to know you were a fan of the Fourth Doctor?"

She fixed me with a narrow glare. "I look a fright, Harry. Go wait outside and let me clean up a bit." She sniffed. "This is, after all, a _girl's_ bathroom. Now shoo."

Glaring at me until I started walking towards the door, she continued disdainfully "And anyone with taste is a fan of the Fourth Doctor."

I laughed as I went to open the door. "Well, I'd hate to malign your taste…" I paused. I'd just gotten a whiff of a truly horrible smell, like rotten garbage mixed with unwashed gym socks. "Ugh, what is that smell?"

Dresden had experienced more than enough sudden stenches, and the general horrific badness that went with them, to make me suddenly nervous. Hopefully it was just some kid letting off a stink bomb or something equally innocuous, but I stepped back from the door and shook out the shield bracelet. Just in case.

I'd finished the shield bracelet less than a week ago and hadn't gotten a chance to really test it. It was constructed of metal shields on a dragon-hide band – I'd used the powdered horn the Twins had acquired to help stain in the symbols on the shields. It was a very simple, single-shot focus. It generated shields. Much like Dresden's it was designed mostly to handle kinetic energy. I didn't have the skill to do anything fancier, even if I had the power or materials, and I didn't know enough about wand magic to even guess how it would work against a curse.

Still, it was better than nothing. I took a deep breath, trying to sort out the smells – rot, something like sweat, an animalistic musk and the coppery reek of old blood. I frowned nervously – that smelled more like rabid bear than stink bomb.

"Harry" Hermione began. "Stop playing around. I really do need to wash up, and you shouldn't be in here."

I stepped back and was turning to warn her when the door exploded. Splinters went flying into the room as broken remnants of the door bounced off the stone wall with a thundering crash. I grunted as I felt a something slam into me, and felt blood began to trickle down my side.

I spun to see a large, hideously ugly creature shoving its way through the too-tiny doorframe. It had a leathery mottled green hide and wore only a tattered and filthy loincloth. It was dragging a club the size of a small tree and reeked of blood and rotten meat.

Pure instinct caused me to shove Hermione back as it let loose a roar, showing off a mouth full of broken yellow teeth. It swung the club through the space we'd just vacated, slamming into the wall and pulverizing a sink.

Shards of porcelain flew through the air, gashing open my cheek as I yanked a screaming Hermione further out of the line of fire. We scrambled backwards as it advanced through the bathroom, another swing blasting through a stall and lodging the club into the wall.

As the troll struggled to pull its club free, I fought down my panic and shouted "I'll distract it. _Run and get help!_" I grabbed a handful of her cloak and sent her skidding across the bathroom towards the door and out of the toll's line of sight.

I felt my wand slap into my hand as the troll finally managed to pull its club free, demolishing the rest of the stall in the process.

"Hey, ugly!" I shouted at it, brandishing my wand and sending colored sparks flying. "Over here!"

The troll hefted its club, and roared at me. Well, I had its attention.

I tightened my grip on my wand as I looked around frantically. I had not really considered the whole "only one exit" thing and was about to be cornered and smashed into pulp. I was terrified, didn't have a lot of options, and Hermione was frozen in fear by the door. Next time, I resolved, there would be a plan. With details and post-its and a slide presentation on "Trolls, Avoiding and Escaping From: Bathroom Edition".

"Run, dammit!" I shouted at Hermione, ducking under a slow club swing that took out another stall. I felt a sharp sting in my leg as more shrapnel found me. "RUN!" I cried, diving to the side to avoid another blow and saw her finally get a grip and run out the door.

I was out of room to dodge. I pointed my wand at the monster and shouted "FORZARE!" pouring everything I could into the spell. Raw force lashed across the room, smacking the thing square between its eyes. It stumbled; shaking its head from the blow. I grinned savagely. My evocations were getting stronger – six months ago it wouldn't even have noticed.

I threw my left arm over my eyes and snarled_ "Solarus Maximus!"_ White light flared from my wand, casting the room in stark, sharply etched shadows. I heard the troll bellow in pain and I scrambled past, trying to get to the door – even with my eyes covered I'd been half blinded. I could see Hermione outside, fright clearly visible on her face.

I stumbled over a chunk of porcelain and slipped on the wet floor, staggered back to my feet, and had almost gotten to the doorway when I heard Hermione scream

"HARRY! THE TROLL! LOOK OUT!" I twisted around to see the troll lunging for me, massive club swinging straight at my chest. Hemmed in by the shattered remains of sinks and stalls, I had no room to dodge.

So I threw my panic at my untested shield bracelet, interposing it between me and the club. A wall of shimmering blue-white rose up around me just in time for the club to smack into it like the fist of God.

Fire flared on my wrist, the concussion flinging out shards of silver from the shield. The blow sent me flying through the doorway, clipping the frame as my shield dissolved. I hit the wall hard enough to knock over a suit of armor, and then slid to the ground.

Magic has still has to deal with physics. And this was very much irresistible force meeting not so immoveable object, and I didn't have a chance to try to angle the blow.

I struggled to my knees, gasping "_Go get help!"_ I pushed on the stone, trying to get up. I could see some of the shields on my bracelet had melted a bit, my skin already blistering beneath it. From the pain flaring in my side, I'd broken at least one rib

Running, I thought, sounded good. I used a convenient blood-smeared tapestry to pull myself to my feet while the troll stared stupidly at its broken club. I dimly heard Hermione's screaming for help down the hall. I took a step and collapsed in pain.

Hell's Bells, I thought, I think my leg's broken. I kept shouting for Hermione to keep running as I fumbled around trying to find my wand. The troll dropped what was left of its club and forced itself through the doorway.

I finally saw my wand lying amongst the scattered bits of armor and lunged for it, coming up a few inches short as the troll grabbed me with one giant hand.

I tried to twist in its grip, and my chest flared in agony as another rib broke. It lifted me up, held me to its face and took a big long sniff, before getting a very _hungry _smile on its face. Stars and stones, going to eat me! I thought as the troll opened its mouth showing off nasty and above all very large yellow fangs.

The hell with _that, _I thought and brought both my hands up, shoved them in its face."Fuego!" I screamed, pouring the pain from my ribs, my worry for Hermione, my fear of being eaten alive, and my absolute freaking anger that Ron Weasley's big fat mouth was going to get me eaten by a damn troll into the spell, sending fire lancing through the beast's head and down its throat.

It didn't even have time to scream. Its hands opened as I poured my rage and fear into it, and I fell to the floor, landing hard on my broken leg. I saw the troll, head ruined and melted, slowly begin to tilt and fall.

Onto me. _Ah crap,_ I thought as I curled into a ball_._

I was already wincing at the inevitable when I found myself yanked roughly sideways, shooting out from under the collapsing troll and skidding to a painful halt right in front of Professor McGonagall and Hermione. I was dimly aware of Snape and Quirrell charging towards us from the stairway.

Everyone stared at the dead troll, its smoking, melted head filling the room with the rancid smell of burnt meat.

"You know" I said woozily to Hermione. "There's not even a bridge around here" and passed out.

* * *

I awoke to the feel of warm sunlight on my face. Opening my eyes, I took in a pure white ceiling which stubbornly refused to change to the canopy of my bed. I groggily began piecing together my last memories, winced when I got to the troll, and finally tried to raise my hand to scratch my face, which itched badly.

It wouldn't move.

Turning, I saw a familiar mass of bushy hair. Hermione was sitting in a chair next to the bed. At some point she must have rested her head on the bed, and was now drooling on my shoulder, between the occasional snores.

I glanced around the room, noticing the row of white, hospital-looking beds. Must be the infirmary, I thought. A small rack next to me held several empty vials. I experienced a sudden, worrisome fear that I wasn't wearing pants.

A discreet check confirmed that, indeed, someone had taken my clothes and put me into a gown, leaving me feeling distinctly exposed. I could feel some bandages around my chest and others on my leg, but I all I could feel from my body was a distant ache and some minor itching – like I'd been hurt weeks ago.

I wondered how long I'd been unconscious.

I reached over with my good hand and gently nudged her until she woke up with a start.

"Oh god, Harry! Are you all right? Madame Pomfrey! Harry's awake!" she cried, sitting bolt upright, hair plastered to the side of her head. I grinned at her.

"Love the hair, Hermione." I said.

She felt at her hair, blushed and began trying to tug it back into order, babbling non-stop, "It was a troll, Harry. It got into the school. And you saved me. How did you do that? You didn't have your wand and where did you learn those spells and oh god, are you okay?"

"I'm fine, Hermione." I said. "Although I can't help but wonder where my clothes are."

I was stopped from saying more as a woman dressed in the white of an old school doctor or nurse, whom I guessed to be Pomfrey, entered the room and immediately began waving her wand over me.

"Stay still, Mister Potter. You managed to break four ribs, two of them so badly I had to remove them and re-grow them. You cracked both bones in your lower right leg, and somehow you managed to give yourself second-degree burns on your left wrist." She continued to wave her wand, muttering to herself. "You were also completely exhausted, physically and magically. You have been for thirty six hours or so."

I glanced down and noticed bandages wrapped around my left wrist, where my shield bracelet was.

"Hermione, where's my wand? And my bracelet?" I asked.

She opened the top drawer on the table next to the bed, and handed me my wand. She then bit her lip. "Your bracelet melted. No one is sure how." She gingerly held up the mangled remains of my shield bracelet.

I sighed and took it from her, twisting it in my hands. It smelled like bad barbecue, a thought which made me wince. Half the shields had melted, although the dragon-hide band seemed fine. Judging by which shields were gone, it looked like the troll's swing overloaded it. I did a bit of mental math, and shuddered. They'd have had to scrape me off the wall I hadn't shielded in time.

I suspected I wouldn't have a hand if it wasn't for the dragon-hide. Regular leather wouldn't have held up to the heat as well. I stared at it and wondered where I'd screwed up. The shields should have cracked rather than melted under an overload. I sighed. I poked at it. I had been planning to test it, and then enhance it to full capacity. I could repair it and upgrade it at the same time.

"Oh well" I said to her "I can always fix it." Hopefully one that didn't burn my arm off, I added silently.

She smiled at me, shyly. "You saved my life, Harry. You were so brave and all I could do was panic. You distracted it so I could get away. Why?"

"I told you, Hermione." I said, frowning as Pomfrey prodded my ribs with her wand tip. "You're my friend. It's what friends do."

"Exactly so, Harry" Dumbledore said, entering the room with Flitwick at his heels. "I've heard Miss Granger's version of events, would you mind sharing yours?"

Lovely, I sighed. I was already following in Dresden's footsteps. Although he hadn't gotten hit by a troll until he was almost 17.

Flitwick apparently took my distraction as the need for a prompt, and piped up "I've checked with my Ravens, and they said neither you nor Hermione were at the feast. Your friend Neville said Hermione had been upset by another student, and you had been looking for her all day."

I nodded. "Yes, I'd finally tracked her down to the bathroom. I was just leaving the bathroom after convincing her to come to the feast when the troll entered. I told her to run, distracted it, and managed to get lucky."

Dumbledore peered closer at me, trying to catch my eyes. I dropped them, focusing on my hands as I picked at the sheets. I felt Hermione hovering next to me, almost protectively. "We found the troll's club broken, the bathroom destroyed, and according to Professor McGonagall she got there just in time to see you struggling in the troll's grasp, right before you somehow set its head on fire. I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you which spell you used."

He peered at me over his half-moon glasses. "You're not in any trouble, Harry. Given the circumstances, there are only a few spells you could have used that would be" he paused, as if searching for a word, before continuing "problematic. And none of them work the way Professor McGonagall described."

Stars and stones, I thought. He thinks I did some form of dark magic – some nasty fire curse. I kept my eyes focused on the sheets, trying to decide what to say – I certainly wasn't ready to tell him the truth. I opened my mouth, preparing to stall for time, when Hermione spoke up.

"Headmaster, I don't believe Harry cast a spell at all. I don't even think he had his wand at that point. It must have been accidental magic, brought on by fear of death. Stress can bring about flares of accidental magic even in third and fourth years" she said, nodding firmly.

I could have kissed her. Who knew she was a champion fibber? I grabbed onto her story with both hands and ran with it.

"I don't know, Sir." I said. "In the bathroom I just shouted at it and dodged, to distract it so Hermione could go get help. It did hit me with the club, but I managed to mostly get out of the way, so it only grazed me. It kept hitting the walls and floor with its club, which must have been how it got broken. When it grabbed me and I thought I was going to die I just felt all the fear sort of explode out from inside me."

Please buy it, I thought. Pretty please with sugar on top.

Dumbledore leaned forward, trying to peer into my eyes. "Are you sure there's nothing else you want to tell me?"

I looked up, focusing on his forehead. "That's all I can remember, Sir. I hit my head pretty hard. I don't know how to prove it. Is there a way to test my wand to see what spells I cast?" I said, offering my wand and knowing full well there was. I'd read about such tests when I'd been reading about the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

Flitwick said "Yes, there is!" and conjured a piece of parchment. He tapped my wand with his, muttered something, and then tapped the parchment. Several spells wrote themselves out across the paper, ending with _Wingardium Leviosa _– the spell we'd learned in charms class that morning_._

He looked at the paper, and then to Dumbledore. "Mister Potter was certainly was in no shape to clear his wand when Minerva found him, Albus." He tapped the parchment. "And the last spell cast was the one I taught that morning."

Turning to me, Flitwick continued. "25 points to Ravenclaw, Mister Potter, for self-sacrifice in defense of another student. Come see me when you get out of the infirmary, so we can discuss your progress so far this semester. Miss Granger has your assignments from yesterday." Turning back to Dumbledore he said "Let the boy rest, Albus. Accidental magic is the only logical explanation, no matter what Severus claims."

"Very well, Filius." Dumbledore said. I frowned internally. That was not the face of someone who bought the 'accidental magic' explanation.

As the two of them left, I turned to Madame Pomfrey with a hopeful look.

She sighed. "If you can promise to rest today, I'll remove most of the bandages and you can go. Your new ribs are fine, but the ones I didn't replace will be tender for another day or so. Your leg was a clean enough break and already fixed. Leave the bandage on your wrist alone. It's soaked in a potion for the burn. You can take it off tomorrow. And count yourself lucky you slept through re-growing your ribs."

I grinned at her. "I'll be good, Ma'am. Can I get my pants back now? Please?"

She rolled her eyes at me. "Your father gave me the same look, Mister Potter, which does not fill me with trust. So I'll have to enlist Miss Granger to ensure you take it easy."

Judging by the gleam in Hermione's eyes as she left to wait outside, I'd be lucky to be allowed to eat before being bundled back off to Ravenclaw Tower.

A few minutes – and one pair of pants later - Hermione and I were on our way down to breakfast. She had wanted to go straight back to the Tower and put me to bed, but I managed to convince her that food was an important part of the healing process.

It also put off the inevitable questions a little longer. Also, I was starving and doubted I had the energy reserves to light a candle. I don't know about wand-wavers, but my brand of magic is work. Real work, like the kind they have all those fancy physics equations for. You don't get to cheat the universe, so gathering energy, shaping it, channeling it, and directing it – its _work. _It takes focus, effort, and energy. It's possible to use up so much that your body can't even keep your heart beating.

That doesn't tend to happen on accident, however. You have to be either really dumb or really committed to use up so much of your own energy, rather than just pass out. There's even a name for it – the Death Curse. When you can channel every bit of yourself into a spell, and then throw in the extra kicker for a willing sacrifice of your own life – well, killing wizards wasn't done lightly, even by the supernatural heavyweights.

Eating someone's Death Curse wasn't pleasant, assuming you survived.

I managed to dilly-dally through breakfast, eating enough to feed a horse, before we went back to the Tower. Needing privacy for this, we went to my room – the room wards against mixed genders didn't activate until curfew, as long as you left the door open.

"Cast some privacy charms would you?" I said, collapsing onto the bed. I felt her charms go up around the room. Like mine, they were nothing special, but they'd keep people from accidentally overhearing.

Hermione sat down primly on the overstuffed chair I'd managed to wedge into a corner, and looked at me.

"Harry, I have a lot of questions. But since most of them involve you fighting a troll, a troll you wouldn't have been anywhere near if I hadn't let Ron get to me, I'm not sure I have a right to ask you." She said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

That was surprising. I had expected breathless, too-excited-by-mystery-or-new-books-to-practice-social-graces Hermione, not thoughtful Hermione. Thoughtful Hermione only surfaced after she'd the initial exuberance out. She did, I reflected, have a full day or so while I lounged around sleeping to think.

I stared at the canopy of my bed. "You can ask" I said. I had no doubt if I said no that she wouldn't ask. But it'd drive a wedge between us and I didn't want that. "I just can't promise I'll answer. I won't lie, though. I owe you that for covering for me with Dumbledore." I finished.

I shook my head. I still can't believe she'd done that. She'd lied right to the face of the Great Albus Dumbledore. For a girl who, deep down, constantly worried they'd take back her wand and kick her out because "Oops, we made a mistake" that was pretty gutsy.

She stared at her hands for a moment, before asking "Harry, what _happened? _How did you do that? I've never heard of the spells you used, or that shield! The only shield I've even heard of is a fourth year spell, and I know you haven't learned that far ahead!"

Her voice started rising "I'm ahead of you in class, so how can you know how to do that? Have you been lying to me the whole time?" She started to sniffle. "You saved my life, but I don't see how you could have and I want to trust you but it doesn't make any sense."

I sat up. I had expected curiosity, but hadn't really thought about how advanced magic would look given she spent a good chunk of time working with me to keep my skills up with hers. I grimaced. It'd definitely look like I was using her somehow.

"Hermione" I said, as she started to sob. "I haven't been lying to you; I have needed your help in class. There are just some things I haven't told you about, because they're personal and I didn't want anyone to know." I stood and walked over to kneel in front of her. "But my personal issues aren't as important as your life" I said. "Look at me, please. I'm your friend."

If anything, the sobbing got louder before she grabbed hold of me, and buried her face in my shoulder, and started sobbing about the troll. My heart went out to her. She didn't have the experience I did. Dresden had killed as a teenager. He'd been stalked by an Outsider. He still lived under the gaze of Wardens looking for the slightest excuse to execute him.

Being nearly eaten by a troll was practically just another Tuesday. And since I'd lived those moments, to me….it was just a bit of a wake-up call that the world of wands and broomsticks could be just as lethal as Chicago's streets.

I patted her back, and let her sob herself out. She must have been holding it in, I thought. Why didn't someone talk to her? She'd nearly been killed by a troll, seen a friend badly hurt – hadn't an adult sat down and let her vent?

She finally hiccupped to a stop, and I let go of the hug, and rooted around my pockets and found a handkerchief. When she opened it to blow her nose the room exploded in sunlight.

Oops.

"I can explain that" I said frantically.

She just kept swiveling her stare between the white handkerchief and me, before finally just bursting out into laughter.

I'm never going to understand women, I thought glumly. _Ever._

I sat there feeling a bit offended until she finally sputtered to a stop, blew her nose, and gingerly handed back the handkerchief. I tossed it onto my bed and sat down on the floor, suddenly aware that it was still covered in a chalk circle and runes.

"Harry, I don't know what to think. You have a handkerchief full of sunlight. You've got a magic circle and runes all over the floor, and they don't teach that until third year. You fought a troll, using magic we've not been taught, and finally killed it with wandless magic. _Who are you?"_ she demanded.

I snorted. "That's a more loaded question than you think." I paused, thinking "I'm still the same boy I was yesterday. I was born Harry Potter, and I'll die Harry Potter. And I haven't been lying to you. I've kept some personal stuff personal, yeah. But my struggles in class are real. The help I've needed from you is real."

I tapped the friendship bracelet on my wrist. "Our friendship is real."

She sniffed, dabbing at her eyes. "I want to trust you Harry, it's just…you burned a troll's head off. They're terribly magic resistant you know." She sniffed again, continuing "A teacher could have done it, but you're just eleven. Dumbledore was hinting you used Dark Magic to do it when he talked to you, wasn't he? I couldn't believe it, couldn't believe you'd do something like that, but if not that then how?"

"It wasn't dark magic, Hermione. Certainly not the sort of dark magic Dumbledore was worried about." That much was true. I'd killed in self defense, which meant it wasn't even dark magic to the Council.

I paused, thinking. I didn't want to admit to Dresden's presence in my life, but there was no way I was going to get out of explaining that I at least knew another type of magic. A type of magic she wouldn't find any references to, would demand to know how I learned so much of by eleven. I was going to have to show her part of the truth, and then demand she trust me on the rest.

I sighed internally. There was one way, possibly, to keep her trust enough to explain that I knew a different sort of magic, without having to explain how I'd learned it.

"I can explain, Hermione, and I will. I can't tell you everything – I don't understand it all, for one. But I can prove I'm really your friend, and worthy of your trust. I know how you feel – you almost died, your friend is keeping secrets, and the Headmaster of the school is afraid I might be going dark. You trusted me enough to stick up for me to Dumbledore, so I owe you enough to trust you with this. There's just a small catch…." I trailed off.

"Your proof has a small catch?" she asked. "What sort?"

"You know how you're always badgering me about not looking people in the eyes when they're talking to me? There's a reason for that. I have a…call it a gift. It happens the first time I look someone in the eyes."

"What happens?" she asked softly.

"You know how they say eyes are the windows to the soul?" I said. "For me, that's literally true. I meet someone's eyes for long enough, I'll get a glimpse of who they really are. And they get to see me the same way. There's no hiding, no lying, no deception of any sort. You're laid bare. It's not the sort of thing you do casually."

"It's not mind-reading. I don't see your past; I don't see your thoughts. I see the shape of your soul. And you see mine."

Her eyes grew wider as I continued. "And what both people see? It's permanent. It never fades, you can't ever forget. Remembering it is like you just saw it, a mere second ago. Just as fresh and sharp. It's for life."

My voice grew softer. "Some people – remembering forever who they are is a blessing. Others, it's a curse. Some people are bad, Hermione, all the way through. So I can show you who I really am. It only takes a few seconds. But I'll get to see you for who you are, and neither of us will ever be able to forget."

She had her eyes fixed on her hands, as I looked at her. "It's your choice. You'll know one way or the other."

The silence stretched on for what felt like minutes, before she raised her eyes and met mine. I felt the pressure of the soulgaze start to form and for the first time in my life I didn't look away.

I found myself in a library, with stacked books reaching into the darkness above. Hermione sat in her favorite study chair, in the middle of a small circle of light. A cat rested on one arm of the chair cleaning itself, while an owl perched calmly on the chair behind her. She had her wand tucked behind one ear and was reading _I, Robot. _Odd choice, I thought.

All around her were haphazardly strewn books of magic, science, and philosophy, and through barred windows I could see a world of people bustling about in the sunlight, in sharp contrast to the silent, dark stillness inside.

I blinked, and found myself staring into her eyes, eyes which suddenly welled with tears before she turned and fled the room.

That went well, I thought, staring at her empty seat.


	9. Meddlesome Old Wizards

_Rather obviously, Harry Potter is the property of JK Rowlings. Death and Dream are the property of Neil Gaiman. Harry Dresden and the Dresden Files belong to Jim Butcher. They'd probably smack me around for the damage I'm doing to their creations._

School Spirits

Chapter Eight: Meddlesome Old Wizards

People like to consider themselves perceptive. We like to believe we can stare into a man's eyes and discern truth from falsehood, to shake his hand and determine the strength of his convictions. We like to think we can perceive others as they really are, pierce the masks, the lies, the social conventions and see the truth hiding beneath.

It's just one of countless comforting lies we tell ourselves. Truth is, mostly we're just guessing. It takes years of close proximity, of intimate trust and communication, to even come close to really knowing another person. Unless, of course, you're a wizard.

There's a reason wizards avoid eye-contact, because knowing someone that well is an incredibly intimate act, one that is on par with the understandings between parent and child, between husband and wife. It is intensely personal. And when I soulgaze someone – I learn who they are in a way that is reserved for only the closest family or loved ones. And they know me in return.

People tend to get a _little _upset when they find a stranger has that sort of insight into their inner workings. The fact that they get to see me the same way doesn't seem to muffle the blow in the slightest.

Two days passed before Hermione spoke to me again. Two days of carefully avoiding her, letting her have time to process what had happened. I kept myself busy and managed a bit of fun - the Twins and I put our heads together, which resulted in Ron spending two days with green and silver snakes for hair until he'd mustered up a real apology to Hermione. He found out early that he had to _mean_ it if he wanted his hair back. I'd pointed the Terrible Twosome in the direction of a few charms I'd found in my father's prankster journals and they'd run with it. I began the slow repairs on my shield bracelet, made an appointment with Flitwick to discuss my education, and spent some time trying to decide what to do about Dumbledore.

He and I had a bone to pick regarding the proper way to handle orphans as well as some notable oversights in his guardianship. Unfortunately, flambéing a Troll couldn't help but result in him taking a much higher level of interest in me than I was comfortable with.

Which basically meant I was going to have to bite back some of my…criticisms, lest he actually take a real interest in my goings on. The Dursley's benign neglect gave me plenty of space and free time to practice, something I suspected would be in shorter supply if Dumbledore was breathing down my neck. He already half-suspected me of dark magic, although I was hoping he'd come around to buying Hermione's story.

I had finally sent off an owl that morning, specifically requesting a block of time over the Christmas holidays to discuss some issues involving my guardianship.

I ran into Malfoy and his two goons as I was coming down from the Owlry.

I sighed as I saw the Blonde Wonder loitering with intent at the base of the stairs. His relative silence since the Sorting had let me actually start to hope he'd simply written me off and moved onto internal Slytherin politics or trying to find relative to marry or whatever it was he did with his spare time.

"Potter!" he shouted as I came down the stairs "I want to have a word with you."

I came to a stop at the base of the stairs – it was either that or run into his bookends. "Malfoy" I said courteously and then nodded to his friends. "Big Minion, Not Quite as Big Minion. What can I do for you three fine gentlemen today?"

I grinned internally as Malfoy shook that off. Apparently Daddy hadn't taught him how to deal with cheerful mockery. Mind you, there wasn't anything wrong with Malfoy that a couple of years of having real life whack him in the head wouldn't fix, but casual racism or magicism or whatever you wanted to call it just didn't sit well with me.

"Potter, I wanted to give you a second chance" he offered magnanimously.

I looked quizzically at him. "A second chance for what?"

"To let me help you, show you the things you need to know. I've asked around – they say you were raised by muggles." He said, practically sneering the word. Stars and stones, he was such a walking cliché. "You _need_ me, Potter" he continued, trying his best to exude an aura of benevolent nobility.

I blinked. "Oh that again. Good lord, Malfoy. We've been over this. No, I don't need you. Look, I don't _care _about blood purity. I'm not going to care about blood purity. As for Wizarding Culture, etiquette, history – my family has excellent references. Your family features prominently in them, in fact. So no, I don't need your help. As to your politics…"

I pushed past him, muscling aside Not Quite As Big, finishing "They don't interest me. Politics in general doesn't interest me. I'm here to learn magic. Not form alliances, make deals, reform the world, or anything similar." I glared at him. "Seriously, you're barking up the wrong tree."

I heard him shout "You'll regret this, Potter!" as I retreated down the hallway. Bloody blonde was going to be more and more of a pain as time passed, I just knew it.

It was still a bit strange he was even bothering. If I'd been in Gryffindor, I could understand. Those two formed rivalries about anything. If a Slytherin said the sky was blue, there'd be a Gryffindor there offering to fight to the death to prove it was really black – or vice versa. Of course, the Ravenclaws would ask what time of day they were discussing, and what the weather was like and the Hufflepuffs would merely glance out the nearest window, roll their eyes, and go back to secretly running the Wizarding World.

Malfoy's behavior had me scratching my head. Maybe I was underestimating the whole Boy-Who-Lived thing, and I had more clout than just as the Potter heir. Or perhaps he was just trying to take advantage of my orphan status, trying to finally remove the Potters as a political adversary. Or perhaps orders from Daddy?

I could feel a headache forming. I was eleven, for Pete's sake. Couldn't politics wait until I could at least date? No amount of inherited money or power was worth putting up with the amateur theatrics of budding eleven year old Machiavelli's.

I finally shrugged and mentally tabled it. It didn't really matter for the moment. I had it on good authority that it was in poor taste to declare a blood feud prior your OWLs, and I couldn't actually do anything until my majority anyways. I'd just have to put up with Draco's constant nagging. I suspected my Dad probably felt the same about Lucius.

I managed to make it back to Ravenclaw Tower without further incident, answering the riddle with "An egg. That one was in the Hobbit too" and had just settled into my favorite study nook when Hermione plopped down across from me and erected a privacy bubble with a few practiced flicks.

I raised an eyebrow. She was very good at privacy charms. I chalked it up to my good influence.

I closed my book. "Hello Hermione. I take it you'd like to talk?" I asked dryly.

She nodded, biting her lip for a moment as she thought. "Harry, I'm…sorry I ran. It was just" she floundered, looking for words. "Too much, I guess. I didn't expect…that."

I sighed. "No one does. Why do you think I avoid it? I've known about it for years, but I've never allowed it to happen."

She looked surprised. "Never?"

I shook my head. "You experienced it. Would you do that without good reason?"

"No. It was…"

"Intimate?" I responded. "Yeah. You know me better than anyone else in the world, in a sense. There aren't any barriers to that."

"Harry" she said "What I saw…"

I cut her off. "Was me. What you saw specifically - It's different for everyone. For me, I get imagery and metaphors. I've read" I said, fudging the truth a little since technically it was something Dresden had heard "of people who hear a strand of music, a leitmotif for each individual. Others might see a painting or an animal spirit. What I see tends to be highly confusing and difficult to interpret."

That was an understatement. So much of my magic and my personality was shaped by Dresden's that seeing souls the way he did was something I'd pretty much expected. Hoped against, but expected. I didn't tell her that she was very easy to read, being only eleven. The souls of adults tended to be..more patterned by life, for lack of a better term. A deeper texture, which comes only from life and its associated pains and triumphs.

She looked down for awhile and met my eyes. "You meant it, when you said we were friends."

I shrugged, catching the hidden question. "Yeah. That hasn't changed for me."

She nodded. "Me either. I'll keep your secrets, Harry." She smiled impishly. "So now that I'll keep them, I need to learn them. So, tell me what you can…."

So I did. I told her I knew another type of magic, that I was slowly learning it alongside with the Hogwarts curriculum. Which was – true enough. I was learning more each day, starting to put my theoretical knowledge into practical forms now that I was somewhere that random gouts of fire wouldn't attract as much attention.

We spoke for several hours about my magic. She mostly accepted what I couldn't tell her – about how I'd learned, about Dresden – but was very inquisitive about the nature of magic, and deeply interested in the Laws.

At one point, she asked me point-blank "Harry, if the First Law is not to kill using magic…didn't you break it fighting the troll?"

"Yes and no" I said. "It's best to treat the Laws as strictly as possible, but self-defense is acceptable. The backlash from violating the Laws is deeply tied up in what you were thinking and feeling. And at the time, I was feeling like I was going to be eaten alive. At no point was I taking life just because I could."

"Killing in defense is simply a different animal than murder. Magic supports life. It is life, in a very real sense. And then and there, I was acting to preserve life, not to capriciously take it."

"The real catch of black magic, or Lawbreaking, or whatever you want to call it" I said "is more than just the rush of power. Black magic does spiritual damage – it's visible to those who know how to look. Damage that's concentrated in such a way as to make casting that magic again seem more and more right and proper. Warlocks fall so swiftly, because black magic feeds on itself. Once you take that step, once you begin to believe that doing so is right…" I shook my head.

"Warlocks are insane – or quickly become so. The stronger willed ones are functioning and insane, but crazy none-the-less. They have to be. The strength of your magic is the strength of your belief – and black magic gets stronger the more you believe you have the right to go mucking around in people's heads, or altering their form, or killing people on a whim." I stared her straight in the eyes. "To do magic like this, like I do, you have to _believe._ To kill that troll, I had to believe that setting it on fire was not just something I could do – but should do. That I had the right to make that decision."

I sighed. "It's easier in the heat of the moment. You don't get a more primal and less complicated set of emotions than 'fight or flight'."

"I suppose, were this sort of magic more common, there'd be police or wardens of a sort to monitor it. What I did to the troll would probably have them keeping a close eye on me for awhile." Internally I snorted. They'd be hovering around in the background with their razor sharp swords. Although since it was a troll, they'd probably just classify it as Winterfae and smack me on the wrist for annoying the Winter Court. Getting into the rather dicey details of how magic, black or white, interacted with supernatural beings was something I was avoiding.

"If I had, say, killed another wizard in self-defense they might even have put me on some strict probation – if it was clear-cut. I suspect they'd err on the side of caution though – I can claim self-defense, but it's really hard to tell what someone else was really thinking and feeling." I looked back at her. "Here and now, I've just got you to let me know if I go off the rails. I'm not worried about this, but….it's almost a relief to know someone is there to watch me in case I fall.

We talked a little more, mostly about the laws and the way I viewed magic. I told her about the ritual I'd used to track her, and even explained the handkerchief of sunshine I'd accidentally given her.

She took the fact that I had essentially LoJacked her fairly well. Then again, she was bright enough to realize that all she had to do was take off the bracelet and I couldn't find her.

Everyone was starting to filter out for dinner she asked the question I had been both expecting and dreading. "Harry, can you teach me?"

"Hermione, I honestly don't know. It's a gift, not a skill. You're close to the right age for it to manifest, and I've a few theories on wand-wizardry that might mean you're very likely to have the raw talent. But you certainly can't learn here." I shook my head. "Not using your wand every day, not with this much magic floating around. You need a quieter place, so to speak, to find your initial balance."

I had a theory, one I'd been slowly putting together since entering the Wizarding world. Wizards are _tough._ They play a sport – for fun! – that involves iron-covered balls pelting people at high speed. They can survive nasty falls, they habitually get cursed or hexed or have magic used on them with no lingering effects.

In Dresden's world, wizards were closer to the supernatural than pure mortals, but they weren't _of _the supernatural. Not really, and certainly not like the Fae were. They could use magic, but they were only a hair more supernatural than your everyday Joe. It was enough, but the headaches that came with learning to use magic – headaches that took a long time to stop happening – were proof enough that the human body wasn't really well designed to channel magic.

Practicing magic changed the human body a bit – which you could see by the long lifespans wizards in Dresden's world enjoyed and the fact that those who stopped practicing magic, who let their gift fade and vanish, did not enjoy multi-century lives.

But wizards here carried around their own source of magic. Their bodies were unconsciously strengthened by it, healed by it – Dresden healed fast, and was tough – but he'd break bones where I would only have a bad bruise. And the real kicker – I'd never suffered the migraines that were _universal_ to wizards first accessing their gifts. I had chalked that up to just a side-effect of the dreams and the way I learned magic, but what if there was another reason?

I was beginning to think that people like Hermione and I were a solid step closer to the supernatural than Dresden was. We were more innately magical. In which case, she should certainly be able to use magic like I did – if it weren't for the fact that her own internal magic was so much more easily accessible.

Budding wizards in Dresden's world expressed magic under stress – in their early teens. Here? They do it as toddlers. If I hadn't awoken it early, if I hadn't known how to reach it and use it, I'd have gone with my 'natural' gifts rather than training to use the magic around me.

Why pull and shape power from outside, when all you had to do was grasp what was already within you and let it loose?

I focused back on Hermione. "If you have the talent – a big if – the easiest time would be to teach you during the summer when you can't use your wand. Trying it now, even if we had the time, would just be an exercise in frustration. If you want to learn, I'll start putting together some exercises you can start on now and we can get together this summer and see what happens. If nothing else, I can start by teaching you to meditate as well as some of the basic theory."

I grinned at her. "I suspect just learning what I'm doing will take the edge off that insatiable curiosity, at least until you beat down my door on the first day of summer break."

She launched herself at me and about cracked another one of my ribs, before pulling me to my feet and dragging me off to dinner, chattering excitedly all the way.

A few days later I had my meeting with Flitwick, ostensibly to discuss my grades. Given he'd made the point for me to do so right after the Troll Incident, I suspected it was more than just to see how I was settling in.

Speaking of the Troll Incident…something was still bugging me about that. I'd heard the rest of the story from classmates, but a few things simply didn't add up. Starting with how a troll got through Hogwarts' famous wards, but both Quirrell and Snape had generated some serious questions of their own. Quirrell supposedly fainted in the Great Hall yet was there when McGonagall summoned me out from under the troll.

As for Snape – I'd seen him limping as he ran down the hallway towards me. He certainly hadn't hurt himself fighting the troll I'd killed.

And of course the million dollar question was how the troll had managed to get from the dungeons to an upper floor bathroom in such a short time.

I'd bet money it had to do with the third floor. The troll was certainly an excellent distraction and even with Hogwarts' variable geometry Snape and Quirrell could have easily have gotten from the off-limits area to the wrecked bathroom in the time between Hermione's first screams and me almost getting pancaked.

The question, I thought as I knocked on the door to Flitwick's office, was if they'd gone together – or if one had suspiciously followed the other.

"Come in, Mister Potter" echoed through the door, which opened on its own accord. I walked into what had probably started out life as a fairly spacious office. Now, however, it was packed to the rafters except for a small cleared area around Flitwick's desk.

Bookshelves laden so heavily they had to have been magically reinforced covered the walls, and tables and workbenches covered with charmed objects and various magical-looking tools took up the rest of the space. The prosaic filing cabinets behind the desk seemed a bit out of place.

I sat down in the chair in front of the desk and immediately some trick of magic or perspective put me neatly at eye level with Flitwick. I suppose something like that would be required, given his small stature. He was almost my height – but I was eleven. The seventh years towered over him.

"Mister Potter, in most cases these interviews are basically a chance for me, as your Head of House, to determine how you are fitting into Hogwarts, see if you are struggling in any classes and arrange for tutoring or help with any problems you may be facing and generally offer academic advice." He smiled at me, a bit toothily. "You are a bit different. But we should get the formalities out of the way."

"Your instructors indicate you come to class prepared, have a solid grasp of the material, and are reliably in the top half on the practical side. Your theoretical grades are top in your class, and that would normally concern me – good theory and poor practical casting generally indicates a problem, a mismatched wand or partially blocked core for example. However, I have noticed in my class – and Professor McGonagall has confirmed it in hers – that your practical abilities have been improving." He looked up from his notes "Have you had any insights into why you have been struggling? I'd like to know if this improvement will continue, or whether I need to arrange time to see if we can sort out the problem."

I paused, thinking over how much to admit to. "I seem to be a bit more sensitive to my internal magic than most students, Professor." I said. "I've had a real problem with pushing too much magic into things. I can't tell if I'm over thinking it, or if my awareness is keeping me from instinctively using the right amount of magic."

He looked at me in surprise. "Really? You can sense that, at your age? That is quite a rare gift. Can you sense external magic as well?"

I nodded. "I can feel it, yes. I don't get a lot of detail, even under the best conditions, and Hogwarts is so full of magic that it tends to be overwhelming."

He looked delighted, clapping his hands together. "That is a very useful gift, Harry. It takes most wizards decades of training to develop their mage sense, even those born with the talent. I have a few books that might help you sharpen that ability. Feeling fine detail will only come with experience, but I'd be happy to put you to work learning how to do it. It's an invaluable talent in fields like curse-breaking or enchanting."

Flitwick waved his wand and summoned a few books as he continued "At the end of your second year you'll choose electives. Given your grasp of theory and your skill in my class, expect me to heavily recommend Runes and Arithmancy." His eyes glanced down to my wrist, still a bit red from my burns, before continuing dryly, "Something makes me think you'd do well in creating charmed or enchanted objects, Mister Potter."

He grinned at me and I was reminded of Griphook. It was very obvious that Flitwick had the same predatory instincts as his Goblin parent, just tuned in a slightly different direction. I had to squash the mental image of Flitwick stalking, ambushing, and messily devouring fleeing knowledge.

He flipped over the parchment and scanned it briefly. "Your Potions grade seems a bit low; however I am aware that there are some" he paused, searching for a term "small personal issues there." He looked at me closely. "I am aware that Professor Snape requires considerably more from you than from others, in order to attain the same grade."

He drummed his fingers on the desk and sighed. "Professor Snape is a difficult teacher to work with under the best circumstances. He is also a very accomplished potions master. The difficulties you face are not of your own making and I am monitoring the situation. His issues do not stem from anything you have personally done. I have spoken to him on several occasions, although I have stressed that you have not come forward with any complaints. If you have are finding working under Professor Snape too onerous, I might be able to arrange some form of independent study."

I shook my head. "I'll be fine. If things change, I will let you know. As the end result is me learning more about potions than my peers, I find the up-side well worth the down."

He nodded. "That covers your academics. As you are a first-year, there's generally nothing else to cover. In your case, there is one other issue – Halloween."

I groaned inside. I did not want Flitwick probing around Halloween. Accidental magic was a great explanation, since it was so unfocused and chaotic you could explain away inconsistencies, but god knows what sort of forensic charms Flitwick might have run.

He put the paper aside, focusing intently on me. "How have you been sleeping?"

I blinked, shocked. "Um…fine?"

"No nightmares? No difficulties sleeping at all?" He asked.

"No." I said, before quickly adding. "I was sort of expecting them, and maybe I'm still just having a hard time believing it all really happened."

I wasn't having problems sleeping because being eaten by a troll doesn't really rate on the "scary list" anymore. Which is kind of sad, given mine and Dresden's relatively young ages. It's hard to explain that trolls really don't rate after meeting something like He-Who-Walks-Behind.

Flitwick looked at me with genuine concern. "I am surprised you emerged unscathed, Mister Potter. Many adult wizards would have nightmares from such a close call. If you do begin to have nightmares or other issues, please come see me or Madame Pomfrey. Arranging for you to have someone to talk to, in complete confidence, would be the least we could do. A similar offer was extended to Miss Granger, as it would be to any student who witnessed something that traumatic."

He piled up the papers on his desk neatly. "Do you have any questions for me, Mister Potter? Issues you would like addressed? Problems? This interview is confidential."

I started to say no, before deciding to gamble "Actually, there is one thing. Why does a school have an entire corridor off-limits under pain of death?"

Flitwick looked a bit embarrassed. "I'm afraid that matter is confidential, matters of security you understand. I personally took part in locking off the dangerous area from the rest of the school so I can assure you that the area is heavily warded and set to notify staff if anyone is in the restricted area. Actually getting to anything dangerous would require a great deal of deliberate effort, requiring skills beyond that of even most Seventh Years."

He peered over his glasses at me. "The most I can tell you is that there has been a certain amount of construction, and until the area has been restored it is simply not safe for anyone to be there. Do not worry about it, Mister Potter. That area will be as good as new by next school year."

I left a few minutes later, carrying the books Flitwick had summoned and pondering the third floor corridor. Flitwick's explanation just didn't make sense. Had the problem merely been dangerous construction, there'd be no reason to keep it secret. Even wizards understood "big things fall down, crush wizard skull, wizard no think good after."

Claiming it was security related didn't fly either. First rule of keeping secrets: Don't tell people you're keeping something a secret. If they were upgrading the wards on the sly or something similar, they'd have just locked off the area with a plausible excuse – like remodeling. "Secret stuff, don't come near!" is the sort of thing that attracts curious minds.

Honestly, either the brain trust that had thought up this thing didn't have the slightest clue how the human mind worked – or they wanted people poking around, looking for a MacGuffin. If that was the case, I'd happily indulge them. Christmas was coming up, and I'd have two weeks free to explore.

* * *

The rest of the term passed swiftly. Before I knew it, it was Winter Break and the castle was practically empty. Hermione left to be with her family while I cheerfully stayed behind. Thanks to a few owls and an enterprising mundane-born Raven, I had gotten my Christmas shopping done early, with the gifts scheduled to be delivered by owl on Christmas day. I got some books for my favorite Slytherins - _Modern Methods in Pedagogy_ and _Classroom Management Skills_ for Professor Snape and _How to Win Friends and Influence People_ for Malfoy. For that critical personal touch I'd gone through all three with a highlighter, a pen, and all the sarcasm I could muster. Tragically I had forgotten to sign the card.

Neville, Tonks and a few others had both gotten the wizarding equivalent of gift certificates. I really wanted to see if Neville could make anything out of some of the seeds in my heirloom Vault, but that'd have to wait until I was of age.

For Hermione I'd gone digging through my Everybook to locate a good book on meditation, and bought a copy via Owl Order. The methods it suggested would be useful for some of the more advanced types of wand magic, or so it claimed – but I knew for a fact that they were useful for learning to marshal and control magic like I did. I'd also very laboriously written out the first two chapters of _Elementary Magic_ into a blank journal.

The book covered the basics of shaping power, the foundation of magical theory needed to work Dresden's magic, with the early chapters acting as an introduction to power and the responsibilities of it rather than a "how-to" manual.

Dresden and his mentor – the man who had written _Elementary Magic_ – had considered magical ethics to be the most important aspect of the whole process. A belief I deeply agreed with, and one that Hogwarts seemed to be lacking. They were big on "dark" and "light" but there was no Magical Ethics 101 or anything even remotely similar.

Writing it from memory was more than a little difficult, but I needed the meditation practice anyways. I didn't have an eidetic memory, but with a bit of magic and a lot of meditation I could fake it at times.

I still hadn't had a chance to explore the third floor corridor, although I had been doing a bit of prep work. I had finally repaired my bracelet, and had managed – with transfiguration and some hard work – to build a set of decent lock picks. Not that I really thought I'd need them – doors here either used centuries old locks I could open with a toothpick or were magically sealed. They were comforting to have, just in case.

I've never been comfortable around locks I couldn't open.

Christmas morning I woke up to find a few packages on my bed. They hadn't been there when I'd gone to sleep, which made their appearance slightly creepy. I poked at them for a bit before finally giving into curiosity and tearing them open. Hermione had given me a new fountain pen – pretty much identical to the one I already used but charmed to draw directly from any ink-bottle I touched it to. Quite thoughtful, although I couldn't help but think she'd done it mostly to stop the random cursing when I spilled ink trying to refill the archaic thing.

On the other hand, months of practice had left me with quite nice handwriting. I could always retire from the Wizard business and open up a calligraphy shop.

I had a nice plant from Neville, apparently the Wizarding equivalent of those impossible to kill cactuses, according to the note. I prodded at it with my wand. It wrapped a few tendrils around it and playfully tugged back. I resolved to look it up in my Extreme Gardening textbook, in case it could be rendered down into useful components, and in the meantime I put it as far away from my bed as possible and resolved to learn how to create wards to make sure it stayed away. Wizarding plants moved too much.

He had thoughtfully had it placed in the pots meant for those living in non-magical areas. Non-magicals wouldn't consider it anything unusual, and there was no chance of it sending out sprouts or seeds or pollen to surrounding areas. We'd covered the Secrecy laws on Herbology in our first class, and it mostly boiled down to "Here's a list of plants you can keep without full-fledged Herbology wards, and here's the type of pot you have to put them in."

Keeping a magical plant or two alive over summer break was a common extra-credit project, and these pots with subtle wards and notice-me-not charms on them made them perfectly legal.

The last package was a bit more…mysterious. There was an unsigned note attached stating that the package contained something of my father's and to 'use it well'. Opening it I found a silvery fabric, smooth and slick to the touch – but which buzzed against my hands, vibrating with power.

It took me about thirty seconds to realize that it was an honest-to-God invisibility cloak. I giddily wondered if it dispelled on attack, before shaking my head and diving into my Everybook for references.

Sure enough, I found it listed as one of the Potter family's most powerful artifacts. The cloak had been working for generations – most apparently lost their enchantments after only a decade or so. I started skimming down the list of observed properties, mouth dry. _No sane person would give this to a schoolchild._ It did more than merely render things invisible – it cloaked anything beneath it from magical detection. Magically speaking anything under it _wasn't there!_ No tracking charm would work through it; no scrying spell could pierce it.

Stars and Stones - I could walk through most wards with this. It wasn't a cure all – the notes did indicate many known weaknesses – the cloak itself could apparently be spelled with charms, including tracking charms, and anyone under it could still be observed using another sense – smell or hearing, for instance. Some wards would detect the Cloak passing, but not the person under it. It was still a magical object, after all.

I smiled as I noted the Potter Grimoire listed a number of charms the head of the family tended to keep on the cloak – mostly to prevent mischief. In addition to tracking charms, it was often spelled with a rather common charm that made the cloak visible to the charm's caster, suffusing it with a soft glow.

Still, I thought, fondling the soft material – the Everybook stated that most wards looked for wizards or other living creatures, and didn't bother warding against non-Dark magical artifacts, because otherwise they'd be going off with every wizard that passed through them, triggering off of wands, holsters, charmed hats, warming charm imbued socks and other assorted what-nots.

I carefully noted a set of specific diagnostic spells listed on the side, designed to detect the very few wards that tended to trigger off the Cloak. Strangely, even most wards looking for plain old magical artifacts missed it, leaving only a handful of old, rarely-cast and half-forgotten wards that would reliably notice the Cloak.

Some long-dead Potter had speculated that some of the sudden swings in our family's fortune might have been due to a gentleman thief or two in the family and there were warnings about letting anyone know about the Cloak's true properties lest we'd be suspected of every theft in England.

I grinned cheerfully at the silver mass, currently quiescent, then reached over to my potions knife and cut my thumb, smeared my blood onto the cloak and felt its magic bond with me. I focused for a second, visualizing what I wanted, and tapped it with my wand. The cloak switched from barely-there shimmering silver to a deep black, shape visibly altering itself into a plain school cloak.

A few more taps quickly verified its limitations as given in the Grimoire. General cloak shapes yes, in a variety of sizes. Coats, scarves, hats, no. It would take on any colors and patterns, as long as I could visualize them strongly enough.

I resisted the urge to Snoopy dance. It couldn't be lost, couldn't be stolen – recalling it took only an effort of will now that it was bonded to me. It could be loaned away – my father must have handed the cloak over freely or else it would have popped back into the Artifact vault upon his death. As it was, the cloak would have ended up back in the Vault anyways in another year or so – it'd only suffer itself to stay out of Potter hands so long, freely given or not.

My Everybook was silent on who made it, or how, but it was bonded to our line. It'd look just like a rather fancy charmed cloak until I wanted to be invisible. I didn't plan to let it out of my sight.

Of course, there was another downside to my Mighty Morphin' Invisibility Cloak – in its current mode, I had to maintain a small bit of focus when I wanted to be invisible. Not much, but combat under the Cloak was out of the question. Sneaking around? Sure. An ambush? Possibly. But trading spellfire? Not a chance. Even with lots of training, I'd have to force the Cloak to revert to its base form if I wanted to try evocation or thaumaturgy under it.

And then I'd have a big sheet over my head, which would interfere with the aforementioned evocation or thaumaturgy. The cloak was great for sneaking around, even bypassing a large slew of common wards, but was sadly not going to be a case of making dark wizards save versus Cloak or die. Pity.

I snorted to myself. I guess it technically _did _dispel on attack. Maybe next Christmas I'd get a Wand of Fireballs.

I did resolve to check the Cloak for tracking charms, as soon as I learned how. Like I said – no sane person would give this to a schoolchild, so either a crazy man person gave it to me – or someone who at least had figured out a way to monitor it.

My money was on a certain Gandalf-wannabe, and despite his cultivated air of crazy I'd bet real money the thing was heavily laden with tracking and revealing charms. Hiding under it near him, I would probably stand out in blazing purple, possibly with streamers of pink sparkles. Lord knows I'd have charmed to catch _my_ attention before handing it off to someone else.

I mentally resolved to cast all the Head of House charms on the cloak as soon as I learned them. Just in case I felt like loaning it out.

After donning my spiffy new black cloak, I checked the potion I had been brewing. It was another of the Family magics – a useful potion to determine magical gifts and strengths – and it took forever to brew, despite not being very complex. Most of that time spent making it was letting the potion steep at certain stages, which it could do in the safety of my trunk. Of course, I was bleeding an awful lot in the process – it needed my blood at practically every stage.

I had another step to do tonight, but after that I didn't have to mess with it until spring.

After bleeding a bit more and putting in the first of the snow lilies, I put away my potions supplies and marched off to breakfast.

* * *

Boxing Day – rather, Boxing Night – found me wrapped in my invisibility cloak, staring down the third floor corridor. I couldn't imagine using the cloak without properly activating it – I'd have to drape it over my head like a cheap ghost costume. As it was, it just took a few seconds of focused thought and the cloak's magic would swirl around me, hiding me from sight. The view was a little dim, almost like looking through lightly tinted glass – in fact, it felt exactly like a first-class veil.

The theory behind veils was simple enough – you cracked open reality a little bit, and pulled some of the essence of the Nevernever around yourself or whatever you were trying to hide.

You were…more out of visual phase than invisible. Some of the more proficient users could handle sound, scent, vibrations – all sorts of things. Dresden, on a good day, could darken shadows and blur his outline, and looking out of Dresden's veils was like looking through a welder's mask. Of course, the Sight pierced veils like they weren't even there. I'd have to test my cloak sometime….

Shaking aside the thought, I let my senses roam over the Cloak. Its magic was muted, almost shifted, like someone shoving all visible light into the infrared. No wonder most wards would miss it, I thought, they weren't looking in the right place. I bet it'd stand out like the sun itself to anyone – or any ward – looking on the right frequency. Had to be part of the veil, I concluded. I rubbed my hands together in pure Ravenclaw glee – I'd be experimenting with this thing for years, I could tell!

Safely invisible, I moved down the empty hallway. And it truly was empty I thought, after pacing up and down it a dozen times. There was just the single door set into the wall. No tapestries, no suits of armor, not even a painting – just empty stone walls and a door. Strangest of all, I didn't feel a single iota of magic outside the normal wards embedded in the walls.

Even within the cloak, I should have sensed ward boundaries or alarm spells, some sort of magic to alert the staff that students were playing around in the out-of-bounds corridor. The magic Flitwick had assured me was here should have been all over this corridor, buzzing and jolting my senses.

It was dusty up here – no house elves had been cleaning, and I saw footprints in dozens of sizes, clustering around the door – and several deep splotches of what looked like dried blood.

Approaching the door, I pulled on my dragonhide gloves. They were thick leather, designed for Extreme Gardening, and would protect my hands to a decent degree. A quick check of the handle showed the door to be locked. I was about to dig out my lock-picks and open the lock – a child could have picked it, even with the gloves – when I had a sudden thought. Pulling out my wand, I tried the most basic unlocking charm – _alohomora_.

Hearing the door click open knocked my suspicions up another notch. The door yielded to a simple unlocking charm? The sort you'd use to open a mundane _bike lock_? The cheapest, most basic trunks sold in Diagon Alley had locks better than that!

I waited, senses straining for any pulse of magic – any alert being sent out, and felt nothing. That didn't mean much. My senses were pretty crude, and I'm sure top-end wards – the sort you'd have guarding the door to a "most painful death" in a _school_ were probably not going to let themselves be noticed by a first year, mage sense or not.

Of course, if you were putting in that sort of security, the door wouldn't yield to a first-year charm either…..

I paused. Flitwick had sounded sincere about warding the corridor. And while I doubted I'd have felt all the alarms and wards, surely there would have been outer layers – layers left deliberately obvious as a warning to students. And at least one layer that students wouldn't detect, but would trip with an audible warning – let them know they were outclassed.

I sighed. Too much of my warding knowledge was Dresden-based. I was making guesses on too-little research on a foreign type of magic. I mentally added "wards" to my never ending list of things to learn and nudged the door open with my foot. I peered inside before quickly slamming the door shut and darting back through the hallway and down the stairs, running as fast I as could.

One floor down, I leaned up against the landing wall, panting heavily. That was a Cerberus! A freaking _Cerberus!_ Something best known for guarding the gates of Hell and they _had it in a school!_

I slumped to the floor, trying to settle my breathing. All I knew about Cerberi was the whole 'guarding the gates to hell' thing. I didn't really see anything in the room other than the giant three-headed dog, but the room was fairly sizeable. There might have been something behind it, blocked by its bulk.

So we have a big, mean dog in Hogwarts. It can't be the MacGuffin that's responsible for all this idiocy, I thought. There's no rhyme or reason for it. There's a huge forbidden forest they could keep it in, and frankly they have an elective class dealing just with big scary animals. Surely there are places – well warded places – for students to learn about the giant, three-headed hell hound in perfect safety. And even if the third floor was where hell-hound class was, why didn't they just say that? "Stay away from the third floor corridor, for we put a freakin' hell hound there and it finds wizards crunchy."

So if it's not the MacGuffin, it's got to be guarding the MacGuffin. That tracks. They're famous for guarding. The MacGuffin either has to be small enough that I didn't see it behind the dog or there's a door and Tiny there is just the first line of defense. Which begs the question – why? Why stick it here, and not in Gringotts?

My heart rate steadying, I stood and reactivated the Cloak. I mentally noted that panic is not conducive to invisibility and began slowly moving back to my dorms. There'd been a break-in at Gringotts. It'd been in the paper – but the goblins stated that the Vault had been empty. I didn't really think that was true at the time – the Vault being empty, I mean. I believed the bit about a robbery. But what if it was empty?

I answered the door riddle ("They were triplets" – it really needed new material) and walked up to my room. Sitting down, I pulled out a piece of paper and a pen.

_Item One: The MacGuffin isn't money._

Gringotts is full of money and if they could break in once they could break in again. If the Vault they'd hit was empty, there's another one right next to it you can rob since you're already there. Besides, if someone had gotten the tip-off that they personally were going to be robbed, they'd have already put their money back under the new security system. Or gotten it insured. Did Gringotts have deposit insurance?

_Item Two: The MacGuffin is rare, difficult, or almost impossible to acquire, possibly even unique._

Once again, this goes back to Gringotts - you don't break into a bank on a lark. If they could get it elsewhere, by hook or by crook, they would have. Much easier to break into a shop, kidnap a craftsman, or break into someone's home. Or just mug people for cash.

_Item Three: Dumbledore knew – or someone convinced him – that the MacGuffin wasn't safe at Gringotts and it was moved here_.

Which lead me wonder "Why here" and not in his sock drawer, under a Fidelius Charm? Even if that charm couldn't be used that way, putting it into the third-floor corridor then drawing an entire castle's attention to it was stupid. There had to have been ways to hide it, even guard it, that didn't require mentioning it to kids.

I sighed. Then again, Dumbledore was fond of the crazy act. Maybe he was doing some reverse psychology ploy.

_Item Four: The Cerberus was pretty scary and definitely dangerous, but in the end it's just a great big dog._

The thing about guard dogs is – they might be scary and full of sharp teeth and an urge to rend would-be thieves, but someone trained them. They are not unstoppable killing machines existing only to rend the flesh of the living. They could be trained, poisoned, commanded, and killed. So it's unlikely that it's the only thing guarding the MacGuffin. It's either a first line of defense or a red herring. Even with Hogwarts famed wards, just a Cerberus didn't seem sufficient to stop anyone determined enough to use something like the Killing Curse.

Two words, one dead dog. Someone willing to break into Gringotts could probably bring himself to cast the Killing Curse on a dog. I snorted. It's only a small fine for casting it on animals, and that's if the court doesn't buy 'self-defense'.

_Item Five: I saw no signs of wards, alert lines, or responding teachers – and I opened the door. That means either that's not the door leading to the MacGuffin – another red herring, or their response methods are a lot more subtle._

I thought for a bit, then circled Item Five and wrote "Maybe a trap?" next to it. Maybe the MacGuffin was bait for someone.

I didn't like that thought at all. This was a school. You'd have to be either insane or desperate to bait a trap here.

I yawned, petting Zatanna. I had an appointment with Dumbledore tomorrow. I'd need to research Cerebri, and start digging into known wizarding artifacts. The big, one of a kind, "kill for" sort of stuff.

I stifled a smile. I was pretty sure I was wearing one on my back. But the Potters bound those to the family line – one day I might acquire or make an artifact worth going through the effort and expense of binding it. The ritual was probably within my abilities even now and was fully documented in the family Grimoire – although I'd need the Keystone out of the heirloom vault. The last time the ritual was performed was well over a century ago – lovely little shield ring, created by the last Master Enchanter our family had produced. I'd cheerfully maim to get that out of family vault.

The notes on the ritual hinted that it was one the Potters never felt like bothering the rest of the world with. It was the Cloak, and the Potter's desire to keep it safe from theft and harm, that led to the creation of the Keystone and the ritual to bind enchanted objects to our line.

We Potters seemed to have the firm notion that if you made or acquired a potent magical artifact, it should work until about the time the sun burned out and be impossible to lose. Destroyed, maybe – stolen, never.

I got into bed, deciding to come back to the mystery in the morning. As I drifted off to sleep, I wondered who I should bill for all this PI work.

I spent most of the next day curled up in Ravenclaw tower, ignoring the world in favor of my book – like the other four Ravens here over Christmas. I spent part of it researching Cerberi, but mostly I was occupied trying to come up with a list of unique magical artifacts – with very little luck. Between myth, legend, and history, I had dozens upon dozens of possibilities. Most of the ones that actually existed, or had existed, were probably locked in family vaults or kept under lock and key in the Department of Mysteries. I needed a way to narrow the scope of my investigation, but so far I was coming up dry.

I finally closed up my everybook and made my way to Dumbledore's office. Flitwick had stopped by earlier and handed me a note with directions to the Headmaster's office and made a cryptic remark about how fond Dumbledore was of Mars Bars.

After two minutes of begging, shouting, and cursing at the gargoyle, I finally tried "Mars Bars", out of sheer desperation. Stupid wizards, I thought0 as I rode a revolving spiral staircase up into Dumbledore's office.

I idly wondered if he had a bad hip and that's why he couldn't hack ten feet of spiral staircase. On the other hand Hogwarts had seven floors, and I didn't see him using a magic carpet to get up and down them, so maybe it was just to impress us rubes. Or just because someone, sometime, had thought it was cool.

Never underestimate the power of cool.

Dumbledore's office was as flamboyant as the man himself. It looked like a jewelry store had exploded– there were so many spinning, whirring, smoking, burping, belching, and otherwise animated bits of silver, glass, and jewels covering the tables and shelves that it was a wonder he could pull out a book without wrecking something.

Strange as it was, the proliferation of whirring gadgets weren't the most eye-catching thing in the office. That title belonged to the red and gold bird resting on an elaborate perch in the corner, whose black eyes fixed to mine as soon I walked in the door.

It chirped musically, eyes staring into mine and I found myself locked into a soulgaze with a stupid bird. In my defense, I was too shocked to look away in time. It was a _bird_, for Merlin's sake.

It was….different, even as soulgazes go. I found myself surrounded by flames that didn't burn, didn't hurt, instead giving off deep, spiritual warmth. The flames took the shape of birds, flocking and swirling around me, singing joyfully. They would explode into elaborate fireworks and then reform only to explode again, and I found myself drowning in the sensation of magic and creation, of life and death and rebirth.

I blinked, and suddenly knew the bird for what it was – Phoenix. White magic made flesh, perched in perhaps the last place on Earth I expected to find one – a schoolmaster's office.

The bird chirped again, seemingly satisfied with whatever it had seen, and promptly fell asleep. I was knocked out of my reverie by a gentle voice:

"Ah, Harry my boy. Please sit down."

I jumped. I hadn't even noticed him. Dumbledore, dressed in the lurid and ridiculous robes he seemed to prefer, was at his desk gesturing at the padded seat in front of him. I walked over and sat down, not taking my eyes from the Phoenix.

To Dresden, they were a myth – a symbol of everything magic could be. Admittedly, some thought they were fae of Deep Summer, but Dresden's mentor had seen it, once, and had merely said that the Phoenix – for there was only one in Dresden's world – was something far beyond the ken of wizards, fae, or mortals.

I'd read about them here, and had thought them merely magical birds – rare but not unique. I had been very, very, very wrong. This phoenix may not be _the_ Phoenix of Dresden's world, but it was still a far purer being than any I or he had ever encountered. The fact it tolerated Dumbledore enough to have a perch here meant striking out some of my assumptions about Dumbledore. I was going to have to play this by ear.

"Aw, I see you've noticed Fawkes." Dumledore said with a gentle smile. "He is a phoenix, a rare creature indeed, and has been a companion of mine for decades".

"When did he come to you?" I asked. I had a guess, one that Dumbledore quickly confirmed.

"When I swore to defeat Grindlewald" Dumbledore said, as he reached over to scratch Fawkes' head. "Fawkes appeared to me in a flash of flame, as if to seal my oath, and has remained nearby ever since. Some people refer to him as my familiar, but if anything it would be the other way around."

I nodded, tearing my attention away from the bird. Even with my senses dialed down, I could feel Fawkes radiating magic, pulsating waves of red and gold against my skin. Magic is difficult to describe to the mundane - you feel colors, see smells, hear tastes…the human brain struggles to process the feel of magic through a brain conditioned to have only five senses. Fawkes felt like red and gold, topped with summer solstice, a dash of cinnamon and immortality, against a backdrop of clarion trumpet calls.

It would make perfect sense if you were a wizard. Really.

"Lemon drop?" Dumbledore offered, gesturing to a bowl on his desk.

"No thank you" I said, shaking my head. I didn't trust the candy. Phoenix or not, if I was in charge of a couple hundred kids ranging from scared eleven year olds to hormonally driven teenagers, I'd have darn well laced the candy with something, even if just for myself.

Dumbledore took a lemon drop, popping it into his mouth before leaning forward and peering at me over his half-moon spectacles. He stared for a moment, assessing me, before steepling his fingers. "So, Harry, you said you had" he glanced down at a parchment on his desk "questions for me in my role as your legal guardian?"

Interesting, I thought. I'm "Harry" to him. The rest of the teachers used "Mister" or "Miss" almost exclusively, and I definitely recall him using "Miss Granger". Why the familiarity?

"A number of issues, Sir" I said. "First and foremost, there was the rather informal nature to which I was assigned to my current guardians. Being left on a doorstep? Secondly, I have had correspondence from the Goblins indicated my parent's house has been seized by the Ministry and turned into a historical site. I am wondering who gave them permission for that, or failing that, why you took no steps to arrange for compensation for the loss of property?"

I was watching closely. I saw surprise flicker across his face, very briefly, before he responded "Well, Harry, there were certain magical reasons for the way you were assigned your current guardians. Most specifically by placing you there I could erect certain very powerful wards."

"While Voldemort himself was gone, many of his followers were running free. Some are still free to this day, though they claimed to have been coerced." I saw a flicker of distaste cross his face. "There were few places where you could have been warded so heavily, yet still enjoy a relatively peaceful and normal life."

Ah, crap, I thought. The only thing the Dursleys had going for them, magically speaking, was a threshold and the fact that I was related to them. Every house had a threshold, so Dumbledore was talking about wards based on blood or family. He wasn't going to budge on placement, not without serious pressure. Maybe if I'd actually been abused, but given the current situation of resigned tolerance and his mention of 'followers still free' I was betting I was stuck. There went Plans A, B and C.

And the 'relatively normal' bit – that sounded like a security versus freedom trade-off. I frowned inwardly. He might have a point. Sitting cooped up behind high-security wards or a Fidelius would suck. At Privet Drive, I could wander freely to and from the house. Whatever he constructed must linger on me, even outside the wards.

"As to your parent's house" he continued "I am surprised at your diligence. It does me good to see you are taking such a mature interest in your family affairs. However, you are correct. The Ministry most certainly should have compensated you for the house. I'm afraid I simply assumed they had done so – I have many things requiring my attention, and it is to my sorrow that this was missed."

"With all due respect, Headmaster" I replied "You didn't answer the million dollar question – why did you leave a toddler, unattended, on a porch with just a note? In November? I'm assuming you must have followed up with the non-magical authorities, because I did get 'magically'" I snorted at the term "recorded with them."

Dumbledore looked uncomfortable and even a bit irritated at being pressed. "Part of those 'reasons of magic' Harry. I'm not at liberty to explain precisely. I assure you it was done for the Greater Good, and you were in no danger."

I could feel the capitals dropping into place on 'Greater Good'. I made a mental note to research family or blood-related wards this summer. Something about that setup tugged at a memory…

I refocused and glared at him. "So just 'trust you'? The guy that left me on a doorstep, like a bottle of milk? Not to mention the fact that the Dursley's definitely had issues with my magic, the fact that no one – in eleven years – so much as checked up on me, and last but not least – somehow I wasn't invited to the non-magical orientations, nor did I have a professor do a first contact visit!"

"But you're not muggleborn, Harry!" Dumbledore replied. "Your Aunt knew all of that, her sister was a witch!"

"Aunt Petunia _hates magic_, Headmaster! She remembered where Diagon Alley was and that was the end of it!" I stared at him. "Something you should have known, if you had _checked up on me. _As was your job as my guardian"

I waved my hand. "Aunt Petunia is not a squib. I looked it up. Hogwart's own by-laws require a contact visit by a wizard or witch and the orientation, for all students coming from a non-magical household. That can be family, but it's your job as Headmaster to ensure that someone visits."

Dumbledore winced. "I'm sorry, Harry, it's just…"

I cut him off. "I'm the Boy-Who-Lived, surely I knew about all that? Or did you delegate the task to someone who didn't know my living conditions? The entire Wizarding world seems to be under the impression I was raised with a Wizarding family. _I wonder how that rumor got started_?" I asked with biting sarcasm.

I watched him squirm. I had him off-balance, but it wouldn't last long. I doubted you got to be Supreme Mugwump by collecting bottle caps. It wasn't so much that he wasn't used to tough questions, he just didn't expect them from a kid.

"Headmaster, it's obvious that you haven't been paying attention to my needs over the last, oh, decade. Thankfully I've managed to correct your mistakes, as best I can. The Dursleys still dislike magic, and had you investigated a mere five years ago you would have seen that fear driving them to borderline abuse" I said.

I let him squirm a bit more, before continuing. "Luckily, while I am not particularly loved by the Dursleys, nor feel all that kindly towards them, we reached a peaceful state of affairs. I am sure they would be happy to see the back of me, however…" I let a bit of hope creep into my voice as I trailed off – I wanted confirmation of my suspicions.

Dumbledore interrupted. "I'm afraid living with your Aunt remains the safest place for you, Harry."

Color me shocked. "Since you obviously aren't going to explain the "Baby on the doorstep" maneuver" I said "that leaves us with two issues – my parent's dwelling, and the fact that you are obviously too busy to handle my guardianship."

Yeah, I was betting he wasn't giving that up either. I leaned forward. "As I see it, either the Ministry owes me my house back or another house in Godric's Hollow, of the same size and specifications down the wards – although I'll specify my own Secret Keeper, thank you – or it owes me a great deal of money. I suspect that as 'Chief Warlock' you could probably expedite this, probably before summer vacation. As for the guardianship, I can think of a few people that I would find acceptable."

Dumbledore held up his hands to stop me. "Harry, my boy, I am sorry that I haven't watched you as closely as I should have. I do have someone living in your neighborhood, and she has reported that you seemed happy enough and well-fed, so I have not neglected you nearly as much as you may think. I will happily arrange to be more personally available in the future. If you wish to challenge my status as your guardian, you should be aware that the Malfoys, among others, have close enough ties of blood to make a firm claim. "

He had someone in the neighborhood? I started running through our neighbors as he talked. One name practically leaped out, screaming and waving its arms. Mrs. Figg, the strange lady with the weird fashion sense and approximately a million cats. Kneazle crosses, in retrospect.

As for the guardianship – crap. As inbred as the Purebloods were, probably half of them could make a solid case. And the richest, with the best lawyers, tended to have been Voldemort supporters. I'll take the Dursleys and the color-blind Gandalf, thank you very much, over Malfoy.

Dumbledore continued "As to your parent's home, I will discuss it with the Ministry. I will attempt to get the house returned, with any repairs and warding done at either Ministry expense or my own. If not, I will get a fair market value for it and invest the money in your parent's Vault, for when you come of age. If I do regain the house, I will be happy to take you to visit, but it cannot be placed under Fidelius unless we can both agree on a Keeper, nor could you move there until you were of age."

He paused. "I am not sure how deeply you have researched the Fidelius, but for reasons of magic – having it cast on your property while you are under my guardianship requires us both to implicitly trust the Secret Keeper. We can discuss it when the time comes, but allowing you to specify a keeper I did not trust would cause the charm to fail."

I stared at one of the smoking trinkets, thinking. I could probably get emancipated earlier than he thought – 15 or 16, which may or may not allow me access to my main vault. All in all, I'd prefer the house. I might even swing summer visits and start warding it properly, to keep some privacy.

"I'd prefer my parent's house, Headmaster, to any gold. I was informed that you had their effects gathered after their deaths, for which I am thankful. I see no problems with you warding it under Fidelius until I am of age, as long as I know the Secret and we can agree on a Keeper. I'd prefer to avoid tourists in any case."

Dumbledore smiled at me, eyes twinkling, rather obviously under the impression he'd gotten his way. He wasn't far off. I didn't manage to get away from the Dursleys and I didn't manage to swap him as guardian to someone else. On the other hand, I hadn't expected to and with the matter "settled" in his mind, I'd probably have a bit of leeway in visiting the home to 'connect with my parents' and whatever other excuses I could come up with to avoid the Dursleys during the summers.

"Was there anything else, Harry?"

I paused, before deciding 'To hell with it'. "Actually one thing, Headmaster. Why are you keeping a Cerberus in your school? I've heard rumors from other students…." I trailed off. He probably had my Cloak charmed, but let him think I was fooled. Surely I wasn't the first to poke around there, not with all the footprints, so it'd seem a clever enough gambit.

He cocked his head, looking disturbed. Oops. Crap. He might not have been monitoring my Cloak when I paid a visit. If his wards and alarms hadn't been triggered…

I pushed that aside.

"I'm afraid those are just rumors, Harry. The third floor is unsafe for students, but not because a Cerberus is loose."

I noted the careful phrasing. A chained Cerberus, or one stuck in a room with no monster-dog sized exit would count as "not on the loose", which meant he was technically telling the truth, the old goat.

"So there is no Cerberus in the school?" I pressed.

Dumbledore looked a bit pained. "We occasionally bring in more dangerous creatures for Care of Magical Creatures class, Harry. At times that has included things like a Cerberus. I can assure you that any such creatures are well locked away under Hagrid's care, and that the safety of the students is paramount."

Again, I noted, he hadn't answered the question. However, he'd just name-dropped Hagrid, who wasn't the CoMC's instructor. Mistake or hint?

"Not Professor Kettleburn?" I asked innocently.

Dumbledore looked up sharply. "Hagrid handles the bulk of such duties, while Professor Kettleburn focuses on research and teaching. Hagrid has a way with the larger, more dangerous, magical beasts. Is there anything else you wanted to discuss, Harry? Halloween, for instance?"

I hid a grimace. I'm not having that discussion if I can avoid it.

"I think that's all, Headmaster" I said, standing. "I appreciate you taking time to deal with my problems. I shall keep your offer of further communication in mind. The Dursley's give me a fair degree of independence, so arranging to Owl you during the summers would be no problem."

He smiled at me genteelly, and waved his hand causing the door behind me to open. "I'm glad we were able to resolve this, Harry. I should have an answer about your parent's house by the end of term at the latest."

I looked again at the Phoenix, which gave a cheerful chirp, before launching itself skyward and vanishing in a burst of flame. Cool, I thought, as I nodded to the Headmaster and set off back to my dorm.

* * *

I spent the rest of the Christmas holidays researching mythical dogs and exploring the Castle, mostly under cover of my Cloak.

To be honest, I was absolutely abusing the Cloak, wandering the Castle well into the wee hours of the night and trying my hardest to convince whomever gave it to me – I was still betting his name rhymed with "Umbledore" – to 'accidentally' run into me and confirm my suspicions that the Cloak was tagged with some tracer spell.

Actually checking for said tracers was well beyond my ability. Maybe in a few years, assuming the charms cast on my cloak were the common ones and not some obscure or complicated variants designed to be difficult to detect.

From the little digging I'd done, tracking charms and revealing spells had been subject to centuries of the same sort of cat-and-mouse games spy agencies played. Warding too, for that matter. Someone invents a new tracking spell, someone tries to invent a way of finding it, someone improves spell to nullify that new method of discovery….

Obscure knowledge, power, and cleverness were what you needed to play those types of games. I like to think I had the latter, but the other two were going to take some time. If it was Cho Chang tagging my stuff, I could probably find it and get rid of it. Dumbledore? Not bloody likely.

So far, my nefarious plot had yielded nothing but learning that Mrs. Norris was intensely curious about invisible people and that invisibly kicking a cat was a lot more fun than it should be.

My clever plan led me, on the last night before the return of the Hogwarts Express, to an abandoned classroom containing nothing but dust and an ornate mirror. A mirror that I was currently staring at in bewildered shock, not even really aware of my Cloak sliding back to ordinary black as I lost focus.

In the mirror I could see myself standing in Dresden's ratty Chicago apartment, staff in my hand. Dresden was standing behind me; hand on my shoulder, both of us smiling widely. I could see Zatanna and Mister playing in the background.

I didn't even notice myself sink to the floor, tears trickling down my face.

I don't know how long I sat there; staring at the brother I could never have before Dumbledore's voice interrupted.

"I see you've found the Mirror of Erised, Harry."

I tore my gaze from the Mirror. "The what, Sir?"

"The Mirror of Erised" Dumbledore said, gesturing to the letters carved deeply into the golden frame. "It is an old and powerful artifact. Can you guess what it does, Harry?"

I looked back at the carvings, words in a strange language decorating the gold frame, resolutely ignoring the image still playing in the mirror. The name Erised tickled at me. A riddle, I thought, a mirror riddle…. "I show not your face but your heart's desire."

I sighed and scrubbed my face with my sleeve. Wizardry and magic could be a real kick in the teeth at times.

Dumbledore nodded. "Yes. Men and women both have wasted away their lives in front of the mirror lost in their deepest, innermost desires. Not sure if it is real or even possible. The Mirror is not a safe thing, Harry, and it will be moved in the morning."

I turned around to face him squarely. "What do you see, Headmaster?" I asked.

Dumbledore smiled sadly. "I see myself holding a pair of socks, Harry. One can never have enough socks."

I looked into his face, at the sad smile that would have fooled most people and thought _Liar._

I pushed myself to my feet. "My apologies, Headmaster. I shouldn't have asked something so personal. I should get to bed before I'm caught out of bounds."

I waited for his nod before grinning cheekily at him. "And thank you for the cloak" before ducking out of the room. I turned invisible and headed back to Ravenclaw Tower. As I got into bed, looking forward to seeing Hermione the next day, I was still debating whether Dumbledore had LoJacked my cloak or whether he'd had wards set on the mirror, but ultimately decided the smart money was "both."

* * *

The first weeks back passed quickly, Hermione, Neville and I falling into a steady routine of classes, flying practice, and meditation. Neville had asked to be included – he didn't know why Hermione was learning to meditate but after hearing an off-hand remark about how she found it easier to cast spells with a calm mind, he all but begged to learn.

It seemed to help him a lot – although getting his own wand would do far more, in my opinion. When I had my sensitivity up, I could feel the competing surges as he forced his wand to work. Neville had power to burn, although you wouldn't notice the way he wasted half of it fighting his wand.

The professors had really piled on the work once term started and it wasn't until February that we managed to visit Hagrid's.

"So, campers, what have we learned today?" I asked cheerfully as we sat down in the library afterwards.

Neville piped up. "I learned not to eat anything Hagrid cooks, ever."

I nodded sagely. "You have taken your first steps on the road to wisdom, padawan." I looked at Hermione. "And what did you learn?"

"Well" she said "Obviously whatever's behind Fluffy belongs to Nicholas Flamel. We'll have to research that." She leaned back in her chair, obviously thinking hard. "And I bet whatever is killing unicorns isn't a good thing."

I answered dryly. "I think it's safe to say that unicorn killing probably gets filed under Magic, Blackest. Anything else?"

She grimaced. "I think trying to raise a dragon in a wooden hut is a bad idea."

Neville laughed at that. "You think?"

I patted his back. "You know what they say about dragons, Neville." He looked at me quizzically as I continued. "You don't have to outrun the dragon. You just have to outrun your former friends."

He glared at me. He knew I jogged, and most Wizards seemed allergic to exercise. I grinned back at him.

"The mere existence of Fluffy in the school is worrisome. I talked to Dumbledore about it, and about all I could get out of him was that Fluffy was safe." I said.

Neville nodded. "Hagrid said that all you needed was music to put him to sleep, and you said he was way too big to get out of the room without being shrunk first." He paused. "Although, Hagrid let that slip to us – maybe he accidentally told other people how to calm Fluffy?"

I mulled that over. "Maybe. Thing is music is the classic solution to a Cerberus problem, although I'm not sure I've have the guts to try it myself without outside confirmation. I have no desire to see the inside of a dog."

Neville shuddered.

"If I can interrupt you two boys" Hermione said "We're going to have to do something about that dragon's egg or it's going to burn down Hagrid's place and probably get someone killed."

I waved my hand. "I'll handle it."

Both of them looked at me skeptically. "Seriously" I said "I'll handle it. Consider it a problem solved. If there's any snags, I'll come talk to you."

"And how, Harry Potter, do you plan to do that?" Hermione asked with a huff.

I leaned forward, staring into her eyes, and let my voice drop to a whisper. "Magic." I intoned.

She groaned and smacked my arm.

I grinned at her. I planned to send an anonymous owl to Dumbledore. I had no doubt the man would handle it discreetly – he seemed to have a soft spot for Hagrid, who obviously didn't have a malicious bone in his body.

I snorted to myself. The fact that he'd named a Cerberus 'Fluffy' was an excellent example of how innocent the man was.

"Moving on" I said "to Nicholas Flamel."

Hermione nodded eagerly. "I know I've heard that name before. I've got some books we can start with, maybe _Famous Wizards of the 20th Century_, and between the three of us we should be able to find him in no time!"

I shook my head. "We won't need to. I know the name. He's famous even to muggles." At her look of skepticism I elaborated. "Nicholas Flamel. Legendary alchemist?" I prompted "Create of the Philospher's Stone?"

I could see the comprehension dawning. "We should double check, but a Philosopher's Stone would definitely be something worth breaking into Gringotts over."

"What's the Philosopher's Stone?" Neville asked.

I shrugged. "Supposedly the height of alchemy, reputed to be able to turn lead into gold and used to brew the Elixir of Life – capable of making you immortal, or perhaps just un-aging. That's the tale the mundanes know at least. I'll double check the Wizarding history but I bet the standard story is not too far off" I said, sitting back in my chair before continuing. "Getting a hold of the stone means limitless wealth and long life – definitely worth braving Gringotts."

"Which" I said "brings up the second point. It's apparently in our school. Whoever broke into Gringotts is going to come here next, if he isn't here already."

Neville looked a bit frightened at that, and practically jumped as Hermione snapped her fingers. "The troll!" She exclaimed. "You think someone let it in!"

I nodded. "Yeah. And I have two suspects - Snape and Quirrell. Snape showed up limping that night, and kept limping for a few days. Either he didn't go to the infirmary to treat it, or whatever caused it was magical and wasn't easily healed. And Quirrell, well – he not only found the troll in the first place, he said it was in the dungeons."

I started tapping the table with my fingers. "He then fainted in the Great Hall, but he arrived at the same time as Snape when we fought the troll. On the fourth floor which is not exactly the dungeons" I continued drumming my fingers, thinking.

"The troll might have come up the stairs, and things were so confused that night that I couldn't really tell how much time elapsed between Quirrell's warning and when he showed up on the fourth floor. I'm having a hard time buying Quirrell's story. But Snape's wound is impossible to dismiss."

Hermione shook her head. "So you think Fluffy bit Snape? Do you think they're working together?"

"I dunno." I replied. "Snape could have followed Quirrell. Quirrell could have followed Snape. I don't even know if it was Fluffy that took a chunk out of Snape – there might be other defenses, or there might even have been another troll. Perhaps it was several trolls that got in, and the teacher's just kept it quiet. Maybe Snape took care of one, although I don't recall seeing anything about troll's leaving healing-resistant wounds. Flat people, yes."

I shook my head. "Too many unknowns. We don't even know for sure if the Stone is here. Still…" I paused a bit, thinking. "My gut says Quirrell."

Neville scoffed. "He's so bloody….useless. He's scared of his own shadow!"

I nodded. "A mannerism which just feels fake to me."

I nodded towards the bookshelves. "Let's go ahead and look up Flamel, see what the Wizarding world has to say about him. There's nothing else we can do at this point, other than keep our eyes open."

As the three of us starting yanking out alchemy references and history texts, I kept prodding at the problem. If the Stone were here – or a trap set – then there would be alarms and wards all over the third-floor, even if I hadn't felt them. If the troll was let in as a distraction that meant someone wanted the staff too busy to respond to alarms. Which meant the would-be thief either felt he needed time to disable them, or he wasn't sure if he could examine them without setting them off?

Taken together, this meant that he was worried that prying would send out an alarm of some sort – probably to Dumbledore.

In the end, the thief had three basic options. If he thought he could disable the alarms without setting them off, then basically he could steal the Stone without anyone knowing until well after the fact. In which case, I'd only hear about it afterwards – if ever. If he couldn't disable the alarms, or didn't want to take the chance – he'd either have to arrange for another distraction – or wait until the staff was gone.

And by "Staff" I meant "Dumbledore". I'd done enough research into recent history to get the feeling that despite his kooky image, Dumbledore was powerful and skilled enough to make mincemeat of 99% of the wizards on the planet. Even Voldemort supposedly stepped softly around the old man.

Flitwick might have been a champion duelist, but Dumbledore had put down Grindlewald with extreme prejudice, and Hogwarts was _his. _He owned the wards; the Stone was on his turf.

I nodded to myself as I began digging into an alchemy text. The thief, if he had any sense at all, wouldn't make a move without first neutralizing Dumbledore - either by giving him something to distract him, or getting him out of the castle.

So, I thought cheerfully, I have nothing to worry about until someone lets dragons in or the Headmaster takes a vacation.


End file.
